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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27427237">beauty underneath</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magali_Dragon/pseuds/Magali_Dragon'>Magali_Dragon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Fashion &amp; Models, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And Dany loves to watch, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fashion &amp; Couture, Jon Snow loves to sew, fashion designers!jonerys, for my tumblr bestie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 00:22:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>21,768</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27427237</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magali_Dragon/pseuds/Magali_Dragon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Daenerys Targaryen is the CEO and Founder of Dracarys, one of the top fashion houses in Westeros.  She’s one of the best and live would be good if not for Jon Snow.  Jon is the CEO of L.Stark and he likes being on top of the industry.  A whirlwind romance years before ended in heartbreak and years later the tension and the competition finally bursts into flames, consuming them both.  All’s fair in love and fashion.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>121</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>514</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. work in progress</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riry_7/gifts">Riry_7</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>HAPPY BIRTHDAY ERIKA!!!! 🥳 🎉 🎂 🎈 </p><p>You are my Tumblr bestie and I have loved our conversations over the last few months.  You are a brilliant moodboard creator and each one is better than the last. I wanted to gift you a fic and thought this would be a fun one since I just loved the moodboard you did so much!</p><p>I hope you like it!!!  Part 2 will arrive sometime soon.  All the happy endings!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    
  </p>
</div><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p><br/>
"Everything on it looks orange!"</p><p>"It's called rust," Dany corrected, spitting her words through pins tucked between her lips. She was in the process of doing last minute alterations, but it seemed there was an actual crisis to handle. Reaching up, she took the pins out, stabbing them into the little cushion attached on a cuff to her wrist. Task complete, she turned her full attention to her best friend and assistant designer, who was standing beside a bored looking model, pointing to the evening gown on her slim frame.</p><p>It turned out the floodlights, from what she could gather, made the dress look orange, not the glowing ember color it was supposed to be. While Missandei worried, she was oddly calm. The big shows always calmed her down. It was in the studio, bent and hunched over her sewing machine and her sketching table, that's when she was losing her mind. Now, however… she no longer needed to listen, grabbing for wrist. "Breathe deep. One, two, three..."</p><p>Missandei closed her eyes, focusing, and exhaled. She shook her head, her honey-colored eyes refocused again. "Alright, thank you, I needed that, but it does not change the fact that it looks...orange."</p><p><em>Fuck, she was right.</em> Dany stared at the dress currently on the model, a gorgeous Lyseni who had been through this time and time again. She clicked her tongue, walking around her a few times, touching the bare shoulders. It came to her suddenly. She looked around and spotted it—one of the jackets she'd planned to use for one of the looks. <em>Brilliant</em>. She grabbed it, draping the structured blazer over the model's shoulders, where it hung perfectly. The crimson of the blazer offset the 'rust' in the dress. It blended perfectly.</p><p>Missandei laughed, clapping her hands. "You're a genius."</p><p>"It's why I do what I do," she laughed, bowing dramatically. The calm demeanor maintained; she inwardly exhaled the fear away. Close call. <em>Crisis averted.</em></p><p>"Dany!"</p><p>Both of them whipped around, hearing her name shrieked, one of the seamstresses Irri rushing towards them, apparently horrified. "What is it?" Dany demanded, following quickly after Irri. It was serious. Irri said nothing and led her to one of the televisions perched on the edge of a makeup table, pointing to the show on the screen. She rolled her eyes. "Irri! I don't have time for this, I have last minute alterations..." Except she knew exactly why Irri had dragged her over, knew exactly what the problem was, and she stared, transfixed, on the screen.</p><p>It was another show, going on in the text next door. Hers began in less than ten minutes, hence Missandei's frantic behavior, hence her need to finish pinning the hem on Doreah's gown before she tripped on it—a nightmare, the only thing anyone would speak about should that happen. Dany never looked at the other shows; she was busy with hers. Her fashion line, her fall/winter collection, but...<em>no, no, no</em>, she thought, horrified.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck. Him.</em>
</p><p>The fashion show looked like it was being set in a post-apocalyptic snowscape. Harsh blue lighting, silver, black, and gray. The beautiful male models strutted down the runway, which looked like a sheet of ice; as did the expressions on their faces. It was the men's collection. And every single one of them wore black. An odd mix of leather and faux—he never used real—fur. It was the coats. Structured, tailored impeccably, with an old-world aesthetic.</p><p>They looked just like hers.</p><p><em>No!</em> "Fuck!" she roared. She spun around, staring at the models that had surrounded her; they'd likely seen it all by now. She swallowed hard; her throat tight. Missandei was now mumbling for her to breathe. It would be devastating. They'd accuse her of copying. It was all she'd be known for. Her collection looked identical to his.</p><p>"Ten minutes," someone shouted.</p><p>"What now?" Missandei hissed.</p><p>Dany pushed her fingers through her hair. She'd tied back her mass of braids with a measuring tape. Her pincushion on her wrist poked at her forehead when she moved her hand again. She had to be out there soon. Cersei Lannister was at her fucking show. Sure, her twin Jaime was over at his, next door, but it was a <em>big fucking deal</em>. Plus, Margaery Tyrell. Myrcella Baratheon. A whole host of socialites and actresses and famous Westerosi and Essosis. They'd come to see <em>her.</em></p><p>She licked her lips, mind racing. Her violet eyes—one of the first things all the news articles said about her. <em>Violet eyed, silver-haired Valyrian Daenerys Targaryen, was born to be a fashion designer...</em> Right now she could have kicked herself for choosing this particular career path as it had set her on a trajectory to be <em>here.</em></p><p>
  <em>What would Lyanna do?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Improvise.</em>
</p><p>Dany ran through each model, tearing off the jackets. Thank gods she only had a few for her entire collection. She pulled them all inside out, plucking at the seams. The interior was lighter than the exterior. Missandei realized what she was doing and hurriedly went through to help with the rest of the models who were wearing coats or jackets with their looks. She ripped off the belts from two of them and wrapped them around the model's necks, like ties.</p><p>"You are a genius," Missandei murmured again, following her lead.</p><p>Not a genius, just desperate. She pushed the first model out towards the runway. "Go, go, go! Before I change my mind."</p><p>The music began, the lights dimming on the audience members and the lights flooding over the models. The first one marched out, wearing a black skirt with intricate detailing along the side, the jacket on top instead of a blouse. Following after her, the same similar detailing on a red gown, sheer and fairytale-like. The mix of whimsy in the fabric choices and the femineity of the gowns, coupled with the severe jackets, like scales almost, was one of her trademarks. It was the reason she said this collection was inspired by Visenya and Rhaenys Targaryen. Conquerors, but women in their own right.</p><p>Missandei poked her in the side. "You did it," she said, as they watched the first model reach the end, turn from side to side, and start back up.</p><p>"Not yet." They still had to finish. She turned away from the stage, going back through for the rest of the looks. Hair, makeup, accessories. Pinning, tucking, tugging, and fluffing. It was a <em>job</em> at the end of the day. The best job in the world, she thought, but still a job.</p><p>"Daenerys!"</p><p>Dany looked up, seeing her agent hurrying towards her. "Daario," she murmured. He was also an ex, which made things complicated from time to time. He pushed her towards the door. "No, no, I don't want to," she began, fighting at him.</p><p>"You <em>have</em> to darling, go take your bow. This collection is inspired!" He grinned at her, his beard shining blue, courtesy of the dye he put in it every few days. "Go take your laps, you deserve it, they'll be talking about this for weeks!"</p><p>Dany sighed, even though Missandei was also pushing her to the entrance. It was required, even if she would prefer to stay back in hiding. She waited, as the models cycled through and then it ended, all the models walking out, one after another and she smiled, in spite of herself, and went after them. The entire tent exploded in cheers, applauding, screaming, and standing for her.</p><p>She flushed, feeling on display in her simple black shirt, leather pants, and boots, her braids in a mess, her glasses sliding down her nose. <em>Fuck, forgot those.</em> She grabbed them, shoving them into one of the pockets on her shirt, and walked down to the end, bowing and grinning, applauding for her models and for her team, even though she felt immense relief. The lights came down on the back of the tent, the volcano-like images that had been projected onto the white screen vanishing and her fashion label logo flashing on it.</p><p>Black, with her red three-headed dragon and the crimson 'Dracarys' coiling underneath, like fire.</p><p>Dany bowed again and when she straightened, she saw a movement at the back of the tent. In all the people, she spotted him, of course he was there. She smirked. He was leaning against the wall, near the entrance, and smirked back, slow-clapping. She wanted to give him the finger. She merely cocked her hip out, placed her hand on it, and grinned, wide, an eyebrow arching.</p><p><em>Fuck you Jon Snow</em>, she sent in his direction, hoping that he could hear her. He was a demon of the highest order, so she was sure he had telepathic skills.</p><p>He merely laughed, white teeth flashing on his dark beard, and saluted her, before turning and disappearing into the throng, just another spectator in black with sunglasses. She scowled momentarily, before she realized there were cameras on her at all sides. So she smiled again, forcing herself to forget about Jon fucking Snow.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
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"You have to give it to her, she's very clever."</p><p>Jon looked up over the top of his sketching table to his cousin, who was reading an article on her iPad, chuckling intermittently. "What are you reading now?" he snapped, glancing back down to the design he'd been working on. He glared at it. For some reason he'd been using the silver pencil and now the stick figure with no face had silver hair, rather than a silver dress design. He ripped it off the giant sketchpad and crumpled it up, tossing over his shoulder to join the mountain of other abandoned ideas in the bin behind him.</p><p>He would have to start over.</p><p>Arya tilted the chair she was in back onto two legs, her heavy booted feet propped on one of the sewing tables. Jon kind of wished she'd tip over. She lifted the iPad up and pointedly began to read. "When asked about the unusual decision to design her coats inside out, Targaryen said she took a page out of her mentor Lyanna Stark's book and 'improvised' when a last-minute stroke of inspiration hit her moments before the show began. Next door in tent number two, the men's collection of L.Stark by Jon Snow had just wrapped up. It was curious how similar the ultimate designs of the coats happened to be, save for the execution. Targaryen wins this round, in the ongoing battle between Dracarys and L.Stark for who will be Westeros's most brilliant fashion label."</p><p>She ground his teeth together. It had been pure coincidence that their coat designs were the <em>exact fucking same</em>. It happened sometimes. Fashion trends came and went, his mother said there were countless times she'd encountered other designers with similar inspirations. It was the execution of course. And fuck if Dany hadn't executed hers in a more memorable way. That's what counted.</p><p>It was so passe to sabotage each other's fashion shows. They weren't young kids any longer, thinking it amusing to steal each other's designs from portfolios, sew together legs of pants, or dribble ink all over the working designs on each other's dress forms. Now it was all just business. There were few awards in their business; it wasn't like acting with Oscars and the like. Each year there were various fashion awards, of course the Costume Design and Fashion Association of Westeros awards and the Westeros MET gala. They fought for the opportunity to dress politicians, Essosi business types, and anyone who was anyone in the Known World.</p><p>He ignored Arya, who continued to read from the reviews of last week's fashion week. It had been a typical fashion week for him. Parties, galas, interviews, red carpets, and always a variation of the same questions.</p><p>Was he still dating actress Ygritte Wilde? <em>No comment</em>.</p><p>What about sultry model Val Rayder? <em>No comment.</em></p><p>What do you say to men who think your career path is too feminine, especially for a former military man? <em>I say fuck off; they must have tiny dicks to be that insecure.</em></p><p>And clearly you are secure? <em>Well no one is going to see my dick, but aye I'm plenty secure.</em></p><p>And then there were the other questions. The ones about <em>her</em>.</p><p><em>Daenerys</em>.</p><p>Jon angrily shoved his black pencil into the stand beside him, grabbing a blue one. He had an idea for his mother's line. He kept seeing a dress that looked like flames. Only blue. Ice blue. He kept referring to it as his <em>mother's line</em> even after she had passed away, because it was easier to compartmentalize the business like that. There was L.Stark and then there was L. Stark by Jon Snow.</p><p>The men's line was all his; Lyanna gave him that authority when he'd come to her with the idea years ago. He built it from the bottom up and it was insane to think that he’d done it all on his own. He grew up with his cousins, who laughed at him, his uncle teasing him as when he was little, rolling around the studio at his mother's skirts, playing with rolls of fabric and making the dress forms battle each other. Things changed, when he went to university, and then he joined the militayr as he was required by Stark family tradition. He loved the military. Injury forced him out and aimless, he'd started with the idea. Lyanna let him run with it and now L.Stark by Jon Snow was one of the most famous fashion lines in the entire bloody Seven Kingdoms.</p><p>He raked his fingers through his dark curls, sending them springing out on all ends. He normally kept it tied back when he was working. Except he'd broken his hair tie that morning, pulling on it too tight as he worked through a particularly blinding spell where he envisioned murdering his ex-girlfriend, who was doing paparazzi strolls outside of the house they used to live in in King's Landing, looking forlorn and depressed. Of course it paired conveniently with her series of interviews and photo shoots with some obscure magazines, talking about her new movie but also dropping references to him, daring people to ask more and want more, but then saying how she was a private person and would not speak further on the topic. Anything to stir a story.</p><p><em>Fucking bitch</em>, he had seethed, when she made some reference to how she was looking forward to her upcoming holidays <em>in the North, with some old friends</em>. Now everyone thought they were getting back together, and his publicist had been blowing up his phone wanting to know if he'd comment.</p><p>He dragged the blue pencil down the stick form on the page, blinking hard through his frustration at his ex. Also annoyed at how similar his designs had been to Dracarys. It was pure coincidence but didn’t negate the fact it happened. Perhaps he needed to regroup. The designs were growing stale. He tossed the pencil aside, missing the cup and watched it bounce off and drop to the slate floor.</p><p>Where his giant wolf-dog Ghost snatched it up, cracking the pencil into two, before he spat it out, shuddering at the taste of colored lead. He looked up, blinking his red eyes, whining. "Well you deserve that, don't you?" he retorted. Ghost tried to lick the pencil again, giving up when it didn't taste any different the second time. "You know better."</p><p>Arya shook her head, still reviewing the iPad. "I remember when he was a pup. Shit out an entire rainbow."</p><p>Sketching aimlessly, he let his mind wander from the design on the page to Daenerys Targaryen. His nemesis. His best friend. His arch-enemy. His rival. His equal. His lover. Former lover, he amended quickly. <em>Lover</em>. It made it sound so romantic, other than what it happened to be.</p><p>Two young kids who fumbled in the storerooms of his mother's studio in Winterfell or the tiny studio flat she had in town. Lying on the roof of the studio, staring at the stars, using them to create their own designs, for the company they’d start together. He’d be the brains behind the financials, and she’d design and sew away to her heart’s content. Making gorgeous articles of clothing, works of art for the body, and one day they might be on display in a museum. They’d refer to her work as inspired, legendary, and she would go down in history as a one-word name. <em>Daenerys.</em></p><p>The women who worked at the studio never interested him. They were generally older, his mother’s age, and had been with her for decades. So when he walked into the studio one day, on military leave, intent on visiting his mother, and met the silver-haired beauty around his age, head bent over a sewing machine, working on a couture gown for some Essosi actress, he hadn't thought much beyond briefly smiling at her and going to hug and kiss Lyanna. Who then whisked him over to her. "Come meet Daenerys! She's my new seamstress, she grew up in Essos. She’s going to be working for me now, so be nice to her."</p><p>“Hi,” she said, offering her hand. It was callused, marked a bit from needles and pins. A measuring tape around her shoulders and black framed glasses magnifying her unique violet eyes. “You can call me Dany.”</p><p>He shook her hand, firm and quick, trying not to flush. He was never good with girls. “I’m Jon. Nice to meet you.”</p><p>And so began a whirlwind six months— tempestuous one might also say—which ended with them going their separate ways, with Dracarys rising up as the newest and best luxury label in Westeros, Dany leaving to finally put her mind to creating something of her own, and L.Stark fading back. Until he took over during his mother's illness and brought it back to be something.</p><p>And fuck if Daenerys wasn't on heels or just a bit ahead at all times.</p><p>Arya cackled from her seat, dropping the chair back to four legs. "What?" he snapped.</p><p>All she did was turn her iPad around, setting it on the corner of his table. He snatched it, skimmed the headline—<em>Wilding Rayders!</em> —and scrolled by the red carpet photos of <em>both</em> his ex-girlfriends, who were looking chummy together at some sort of awards charity gala he <em>knew</em> neither gave two shits about and only used for their once a year appearance to look like they had a heart. He scanned by the ones of Ygritte—she was looking particularly ashy skinned lately—then ones of Val—who wore her signature all-white.</p><p>And then to the bottom. <em>Ms. Wilde raved about her ivy green Dracarys dress, saying it was the most comfortable thing she'd worn in years, and that Daenerys Targaryen, the creative director and CEO of Dracarys, outfitted her personally for the event.</em> He gripped the side of the iPad, almost cracking it and saw some more photos of Ygritte for a fucking dumb magazine where she was also wearing clothes by Dracarys.</p><p>He swallowed his hatred. "Good for her, at least someone is wearing her clothes. Don't know why it has to be my ex."</p><p>"Your ex is looking a little puffy lately. She knocked up? When was the last time you saw her?"</p><p>"Fucking hells Arya, bite your tongue." He knew full well that Ygritte would never have a baby.  Too much competition, and she’d only do it to trap some poor sap if it was convenient for her career. Besides, he hadn't seen her in over a year. "It's a boring outfit."</p><p>"I think it looks nice. She managed to make her not as bony."</p><p>"That's because she put in cutouts, otherwise there'd be holes in the fabric."</p><p>"You are being nasty lately, what crawled up your arse and died?"</p><p>Jon was just irritated. He dropped his pencil, scrubbing his face. Maybe it was just lack of creativity. Too many nights up late working on designs, reviewing their financials, and L.Stark had gone public the previous year. He didn't realize how exhausting it was trying to maintain both creative and full corporate control over the company. "Have you heard from Sansa regarding the Braavos store?"</p><p>"What about it?"</p><p>"It dropped in revenue last quarter," Jon murmured, dragging a red pencil over the page, overtop the blue. He didn’t know what he was doing. He flicked it up and down, little slashes on the page.</p><p>"Why do you care about an individual store's revenue?"</p><p>He shrugged. Because he was CEO. Because he was more than just the face of the company and more than just one of the chief designers. "Because it's my business to know everything."</p><p>Arya sighed, taking the iPad back, starting to make notes. She wasn't his personal assistant, no matter how many times she said and no matter how many times he told her to lay off trying to manage his life, and yet somehow, they had a relationship that was brother-sister, best friend, and also personal assistant/boss. Jon didn't know who the boss was sometimes. She pinched her brow together, nose wrinkling. "Cersei Lannister's office just emailed."</p><p>He picked up another red pencil, shading in the skirt he was drawing. "Why?" Somehow the skirt resembled flames now. He took an orange pencil, darkening the edges. It looked like the dress was melting in flame, ice on the top and fire on the bottom. He had no idea what he was doing; he'd given up at this point. Sometimes he just had to sketch something to get the anxiety out; otherwise he'd be smoking or snapping a rubber band on his wrist.</p><p>"Seems like she wants someone to dress her for the CFDW awards."</p><p>"Hmmm." He didn't do that type of thing; he left it to Sansa, who was their chief designer for the women's couture collections. He only stepped in when it was a major client and right now Cersei Lannister did not qualify. He didn't give a fuck how rich she was. He waved his hand, pushing his glasses up on his nose. <em>Maybe I do need a cigarette.</em> He slid off the bench and snatched the pack off one of the abandoned sewing tables, going over to the window.</p><p>It was an old-fashioned crank, squeaking as he pushed it out, dislodging some leftover spring snow. It was always amusing how the fall and winter collections were shown in the springtime, early summer. And then in winter they all got to see the spring and summer ideas. He propped his hip up on the windowsill, flicking his trusty Zippo over the end of a cigarette, inhaling deeply.</p><p>He blew out a stream, closing his eyes and relaxing as the smoke hit his lungs. It was such a nasty habit; his mother would have grabbed the cigarette and smashed it out on his sketchbook if she saw him smoking in the studio. There was no one there, he gave them the week off after every show. They deserved it. Just him, his thoughts, Ghost, and Arya in the building today.</p><p>The smoke curled out from the window, cold air blowing over his face, chilling his forearms and cheeks; the sweater he wore was pushed up at the elbows and his shirt left untucked from his jeans. He gave off casual elegance, of course wearing his own designs. He inhaled again; wondering why Arya had gone quiet. Ghost came over for pets, bucking his head underneath his hand, snuffling into his thigh. "What is it?" he wondered.</p><p>She looked up. "Nothing."</p><p>"Spit it out." He arched a dark brow. "Arya?"</p><p>"Um, seems like Cersei has asked someone else for a design too. She wants to pick between you and someone else...or so Sansa says." Arya chewed on her bottom lip. She walked over; shuffled more like. Jon shoved the smoke between his lips, not breaking eye contact with her, brow furrowed. He took the iPad, glancing at the email. And scrolled towards the bottom, where it was written by Cersei's assistant, some dipshit he knew was named Lancel.</p><p>
  <em>In the interest of full transparency we wish to inform you we have also asked Dracarys to provide Ms. Lannister a design and she will select from the best one.</em>
</p><p>Jon sucked on the cigarette a moment longer. He pushed the iPad away, stubbed out what remained of his smoke, and waved at the acrid stench near the window, before he tugged it closed and returned to his sketching table. He ripped off the random drawing on top of the pad, studied it a moment, and moved to crumple it.</p><p>Something prevented him; perhaps it was just because he liked it. Or maybe it was he was just tired of wasting paper. Instead, he shoved it with some others behind the sketchpad, and picked up a pencil, quickly marking out a form. He began to think, letting his mind wander, and hardly heard Arya.</p><p>"What are you doing?" she asked, maybe for the second or third time, evidenced by her annoyed scowl.</p><p>He brought up photos on the iPad beside him, studying Cersei Lannister's last few looks. This was a job for Sansa. Except he was <em>not</em> going to have her fuck this up somehow. He looked at the table and closed his eyes, thinking of his mother's voice, hearing it in his head and in his heart.</p><p>
  <em>Just let the pencil take you where it wants to go. Your mind will fill in the rest.</em>
</p><p>And he began to sketch.</p><p>Arya repeated her question again. He kept his eyes closed; seeing only the smirking face of one Daenerys Targaryen in his vision. It was going to sustain him, he supposed. "What's it look like?" he demanded. He opened his eyes, grinning. "I'm designing a fucking dress."</p><p>"Why?"</p><p>"Why?" He snorted, bending back over the sketch, starting to fill in some of what he'd begun to draw. That was a stupid question, she had to know why. "Because," he mumbled. He chuckled; perhaps he was going mad. "Because I'm going to beat Daenerys Targaryen."</p><p>
  <em>She was not going to walk over him on this one.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
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“Cersei, you look beautiful, tell me who are you wearing?"</p><p>Off to the side, answering a question from a fashion blog, the young girl who was interviewing her almost passed out from excitement, Daenerys tried to school her expression and not sneer towards Cersei Lannister. Everyone was shouting over the sound of the cameras and people calling for various celebrities and designers to come speak to them. She just followed where Daario told her to go, Missandei hovering nearby to assist with her dress, if need be. She was just a designer; famous in her own right, but she didn't get near the attention that the celebrities were getting.</p><p>Including the redhead who wandered over to her at one point, beaming and showing off her famous oversized front teeth. "Photo?" she offered, grinning at her. "Daenerys?"</p><p>Ygritte only wanted pictures with her to piss off Jon, so Dany happily obliged. Anything to make that fucker explode. Of course that would require him to show an ounce of emotion, of which he was not capable. Jon Snow was all ice, no fire. He lived and breathed the uptight, stodginess of his Northern heritage. Dany often wondered if he even had a beating heart.</p><p>Of course, she knew what he called her. <em>Satanic Majesty.</em> She reveled in it. She smiled for the cameras, letting Ygritte wave and grin, wearing another one of her designs. Ygritte wasn't quite so famous to get an actual couture piece, but Dany allowed her to wear her designs. They didn't really fit well on Ygritte's flat, bony body, but in a way that was fine. It was like the dress was on a clothes hanger. It was the only thing people could see.</p><p>"So I heard," Ygritte said, as they walked back from the photo line. She pretended to simper; she wasn't that great of an actress. It came off more as gleeful. "You lost the competition that Lannister witch made you and Crow do?"</p><p>For whatever reason Jon was <em>Crow</em> to her. Dany didn't care. "Hmm," she answered, shifting on her six-inch platform heels, sweeping gaze over Cersei's crimson and gold gown. It was uninspired. The one she'd designed had been breathtaking, tulle and chiffon. Not the overly leathered and too sharp armor-like thing she was currently wearing.</p><p>A false smile again on her face, Ygritte chuckled. "He's quite the dick. Tell me, what will you do to get back at him, exactly?"</p><p>Tearing away from Cersei and walking sideways towards the next grouping of photographers, she attempted to extricate herself from Ygritte, but the woman was not deterred. She politely smiled. "I'm sorry Ygritte, I think you are mistaken. I am not interested in getting back at Jon Snow. the dress looks lovely on you, have a good evening." Effectively silencing the redhead she made her escape and found Daario and Missandei.</p><p>"Why were you talking to Wilde?" Daario demanded. "She's not worth your time. Too B-list. Come, Ellaria Sand and Oberyn Martell are here. Those are the ones who you need to chat up. Sand's stylist reached out for the Met gala this year."</p><p>"Lovely."</p><p>The echoing words of Daario faded in the back of her mind, muffled from her imminent thoughts. Jon Snow beat her and got to dress Cersei for the event. It was a major coup. They hadn't seen each other during the bidding process and she only received a simple email from Cersei Lannister's office saying she had not gotten the bid. Instead she dressed others for the event and made sure to pour her energy and desire to burn Jon Snow in a wave of dragonfire into her designs and work to open up her third storefront. She had two, one in King's Landing and another in Pentos. She was hoping to expand to the Braavosi market next.</p><p>She paused on the appointed spots, smiling and flapping out the wing-like sleeves of her shiny golden dress, her hair pulled back sleekly into a simple ponytail, eyes dark and sultry, face clear and bright. She was the statue, she liked to think, a hand going to her hip, highlighting the cutouts at her belly, above the high skirt, showing off her toned abdomen. She moved away, towards the entrance to the Red Keep, where the event would be held in the old throne room, now a museum gallery.</p><p>They were both honored that evening, although she knew that Jon was irritated. He hadn't won in the category they were both up for. Womenswear Designer of the Year. He won for Men's, of course. Except she knew he wanted to beat her. It didn't matter that he only designed the women's couture, his cousin was the Artistic Director for the Ready-to-Wear collections. Dany supposed it was consolation for not being able to dress Cersei that evening.</p><p>Inside the ballroom the decor twinkled, dark walls and ironworks, the great Iron Throne lit up around all sides, and tables scattered throughout the great chamber, each one sparkling as though it had been dusted in glitter. Ornate iron centerpieces with glowing candles sat on each table and she accepted the offer of Daario's arm to lead her to her spot, at the front of the room. She ground her teeth to see that Jon Snow was already at his table, right next to hers.</p><p>
  <em>No...</em>
</p><p>Their backs would be facing each other the whole evening. "Switch my seat," Dany blurted, halting in her tracks.</p><p>"No way, do you know what pull it took to get you this spot? You're right in line of the cameras." He smirked; she knew he knew that it also meant Jon would be there too. All the images would have them both in the frame, smiling and being polite, while everyone around knew they wanted each other's heads on spikes.</p><p>She slid her eyes to the right, to survey Jon through her lashes, hoping he didn't see her peeking. He was as refined as ever, his traditional all-black, from his pulled back curls to the toes of his shiny boots. He wore skinny pants, which she would make a crack at when she could. They were almost painted on him. There was a shiny satin stripe on the side and his lapels were made of the same accent, open over a black shirt buttoned up with no tie, the collar narrow, with a fold over it to button to the side of his neck. Dark beard trimmed short. An onyx watch on his wrist, glinting metal in the dim lighting.</p><p>The dark curls she <em>hated</em> were in a pretentious man-bun. She arrived at her seat, ignored him, and drew out the chair, just at the same time as he moved, knocking him in the leg. "Watch it," she snapped. She smirked. "Or is your nose so stuck up in the air you can't see us mere mortals?"</p><p>The sinful pink lips, plump and full-- she forced her reptilian brain to stop thinking of how they felt on her skin-- peeled over blinding white teeth. "Daenerys," he cooed. He lifted his brows, cocking his head. "Or shall I call you Big Bird? Did you skin him?"</p><p>She sneered. "That manbun is more pretentious than ever. Are you trying to look like an aging hippie? Not a good look. Then again..." she nodded to his skinny pants. "You also have the whole refusing to age thing going on in general. Looks more appropriate for a hipster coffee shop in the Vale than a King's Landing gala."</p><p>Jon loomed close to her; he smelled like sandalwood, peppermint, and cigarettes. Together it was <em>him</em> and her skin pebbled, hair standing on end. She was so annoyed at her body's reaction. He smiled, pupils expanding wide in his eyes, drowning out the steely gray. <em>So he feels the same too, good to know</em>, she thought, smirking. that made her feel a little better about her reaction. He planned to say something, but the lights flashed a few times, encouraging everyone to take their seats, the gala would begin shortly. She pursed her lips, lifting her chin slightly. He sucked in a breath, his teeth clacking. "Well Your Satanic Majesty, I should let you flap your wings, take your seat."</p><p>"Of course, I believe I am the first award of the evening," she taunted. She yanked her seat back out, hitting his knuckles. He squinted. She glanced at his pants and back up to him again. "Those pants are so tight they look like they're cutting off your circulation. Guess you don't need it, huh?"</p><p>Jon laughed, low and threatening. She sat down, back to him, and stiffened, his warm breath tickling her ear. One of the earrings she wore, dangling to her shoulder, swayed. "I don't see any lines in your dress, guess you're going commando too, hm?"</p><p><br/>
Heat rose up her neck to her already pale pink cheeks, darkening them red. She <em>was</em>, but he didn't need to know that. "You better be careful," she continued, ignoring the music starting, the lights dimming further. She turned her head completely, arm over the top rung of the chair. She grinned. "Your lovely ex-girlfriend has her sights on you. Specially requested the design of her dress for ah, ease of access."</p><p>His eyes expanded; momentary fear crossing his face. "What," he began, but then someone came up to him, distracting him.</p><p>She chuckled, swiveling in her seat and focusing on the table, while an emcee came out to speak, to entertain as the first round of drinks and appetizers were served, before the first award of the evening, which was her. She couldn't wait. She had a plan.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
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Jon stormed out of the Red Keep, fingers clenching Jon stormed out of the Red Keep, fingers clenching so tight into his palms his knuckles were turning red.<br/>
The loud click of his boot heels on the stone floor reverberated through Jon's entire body. It was shaking regardless, ice cold fury wafting off of him. He had to get out of the Red Keep. He did not even want to go to this bloody thing, but Sansa insisted, said that it was his <em>duty</em> or some other bullshit. He had to be there to accept the award in person, say some nice words about the company, and of course, his mother. He was fine with that. It was the fact that he had to get up there and do so in front of <em>her.</em></p><p>And she had beaten him anyway in the only category he gave a hell about. The only reason he knew he cared was because it was her. If he had lost it to anyone else, it would not have caused him to bat an eyelash. It was the principle of it. He pushed his fingers over his hair, knocking free the bun he pulled it into earlier. He laughed when people thought of it as a trademark or even a fashion statement. It was just easier and kept his hair from his eyes when he was working.</p><p>He fumbled in his pocket and took out his e-cigarette cartridge, snapping his teeth wolf-like over the hard plastic. He inhaled strawberries and exhaled a curl of purplish-hued smoke from his nostrils, allowing the fake nicotine to fill his veins and the comforting action soothe him. It was a nasty habit and he knew he had to quit. Then there were moments like right now. When if he didn't smoke, he would turn back around and rip someone to shreds.</p><p>"You mad?"</p><p>The cool, lilting Valyrian tinged accent behind him caused his entire spine to stiffen. He ground his teeth around the cartridge. Took another inhale. Exhaled. Removed it. He turned around and took in the sight before him.</p><p>She stood on the top step leading into the Red Keep. They were in one of the side areas, where the doors were open to allow for people to mingle on the steps and into one of the courtyards. He knew there were other entrances into other areas of the museum, towards Maegor's Holdfast and the Tower of the Hand. The light pouring from the entry to the throne room caused a glow off her golden gown. Her hair shone like spun silk. He called her Big Bird, make a crack about the color and the style of the gown, but it was breathtaking on her.</p><p>Just the right about of sparkle, accessorizing, the cutouts on the belly, the sweetheart neckline and the hem stopping just above her ankles to show off her dainty gold sandals. Daenerys Targaryen was a beauty, the most beautiful woman in the entire known World, depending on who you asked. It was criminally unfair in some ways.</p><p>And then she had to go dress like <em>that.</em></p><p>He hated how a certain part of his body reacted to her, while his brain tried to tell him to knock it off. It was the teenager side. The early 20s side that remembered how she felt in his arms, that longed for her touch and kisses. He was a fool back then. He was not a fool now.</p><p>"Mad?" he echoed. He played it off, chuckling, and walked up a few steps to her. She gazed down at him. If he met her step, he would only be a few inches taller than her, even with her heels. He quirked his lips. "Why would I be mad?"</p><p>"Oh I don't know..." she teased. A silver brow arched. The thick cat-eye eyeliner on her lids exemplified her sultriness in a way that was also criminal. "You stormed out of there, so upset, did not even congratulate me when I got back to my seat." She clicked her tongue, chin jutting forward. "Poor Jonny, angry that I thanked him for the support, the education, the opportunities...to get where I am. To beat you." She chuckled. "You are predictable."</p><p>He kissed his teeth. Tilted his head. "At least I didn't have to use someone to get where I am today. tell me, when Dracarys starts to go belly up, who are you going to fuck to get the connections you need to make something of yourself?"</p><p>The slap did not sting near as much as some of her others had . He was prepared for it. Perversely, he might have wanted it too. His cheek warmed, her ring cutting his lip. He chuckled at the burst of copper in his mouth, licking at his lip and wiping the smear of blood from it, shooting a look at her.</p><p>Her breasts heaved in the tight bodice, the sequins glimmering in the torch lights around them. Violet eyes wide, they appeared black. Her throat tightened, long and slim. The thin yellow diamond earrings she wore swayed with the heavy breathing. He knew he hit a nerve. It was a nerve that had remained raw and angry for the past ten years. Ever since she left him.</p><p>Or he left her, if you heard her side of things.</p><p>He grinned, wolfish. "I hit a nerve," he murmured.</p><p>"Fuck you," she hissed.</p><p><em>You first</em>, he felt like adding, but instead, he grabbed her around her middle, his arm fitting perfectly in the notch of her hips, where they flared out from her slim waist, jerking her off her feet and forcing her to stumble off her step, so he could crash his mouth over top hers, angrily kissing. He did not know what overcame him. It had been a long time since they were this close to each other. Fire and ice, the magazines called them, keying in on their preferred aesthetics, the light and the dark, and how they battled in these silly awards, on the red carpets, at the shows, and in the revenue and sales they made.</p><p>Someone moaned—likely both if he were being honest— rather loudly. She gripped his lapels tight, pulling him against her. He rose over her and battled, tongues spearing against each other and teeth clacking; the cut on his lip from her ring throbbed but he paid no mind. It always hurt when he was with her. He nipped her bottom lip, reminding her just who she was dealing with, and savored the soft pants he received in return, her small, firm body pressed against his.</p><p>Gods, if someone walked out, they'd be a sight, would hit every single blog and go viral in seconds. Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen, making out at the CFDW awards, moments after Daenerys Targaryen actually thanked him for her position in the fashion industry, dared to bring up some of the failed designs by L.Stark, and make sure to pointedly refer to Lyanna Stark as her inspiration and the reason she was where she was, and that was why she had far surpassed Jon Snow as a result. <em>After all, she was a mother to me too.</em> There was no lie in what she said, it was just little knives at him, stabbing straight into his gut.</p><p>And reminding him exactly what he'd said to her and what he'd done to her too. Except, that was also her fault, he wanted to say. Blood drained straight from his head to his cock, her body rubbing up against his, warm and small, molding into him. He pulled her harder to him, splaying his hand wide over her back, cupping her arse. She arched her hips up, the drag of her against him forcing a groan from him. She gasped, taking in the groan, and her fingers tightened at the base of his neck, nails curving deep into his skin.</p><p>They eventually tore away, need for oxygen the only reason. Gulping breaths and chests heaving, their eyes met. Black and wanton, needing the other. "Jon," she whimpered, his mouth dropping to hers again.</p><p>His eyes rolled back into his skull. This was the worst thing they could possibly do. He <em>hated</em> her. "Your latest line is incredibly subpar," he murmured, ticking an eyebrow up. Her nostrils flared, pupils expanding further if possible, they were already drowning out the thin violet irises. He swallowed the lump in his throat, pushing ahead. “Just a ripoff of mine from last season.”</p><p>“Your coats look like rugs of animals that died on the side of the road,” she murmured. It was a common insult; he’d heard it before from her. All it did was spur him forward. He growled, lifting her up to him once more. They dove for each other, struggling to stop, but also struggling to get closer. It was impossible. Where one ended, the other began, their hearts slamming in unison.</p><p>The second kiss ended the same as the previous two, both of them only separating to breathe, except now she was ruffled, her hair slightly frizzy at the temples, lipstick eaten away and smeared at the corners of her mouth. Her wide violet eyes were naked, vulnerable, and he gulped, remembering how it was, seeing her laughing at him from across a room as she sewed, and he went through spreadsheets of financials. Or both of them hiding under the covers in her tiny little apartment, not wanting to leave the warm bed or each other. Or the fight. The screaming and the tears and the betrayal.</p><p>And that’s what did it, reminded him of why they broke up and why they would never be anything other than rivals again. He stepped backwards, almost stumbling off the step, catching himself. He wiped at his mouth, wondering if her lipstick had transferred; they’d all know what they were doing out here then.</p><p>She chuckled, glancing down and crossing her arms over her chest, eyes closing. “This was never about anything other than you trying to…one up me, isn’t it?” She stepped away, turning her face to the Red Keep.</p><p>He was confused, momentarily gaped at her. “What?”</p><p>“This is all a game to you,” she continued. She bit her words, but he could sense the fire curling inside of her, the smoke that might as well be steaming from her. The dragon was awake. “I won, Jon. Face it. Your company might be one of the most well-known and successful in our industry, but I’m here and I’m not going anywhere and nothing you do is going to stop that. I won’t apologize for what happened, you’re the one who still isn’t over it.”</p><p><em>Lies, I’m over it.</em> He narrowed his gaze on hers, curling a lip up. He reached into his pocket, removing his cigarette cartridge and bit on it, smirking. “Very well,” he purred. He ignored his achy chest and his sweaty palms. It wasn’t a game, this wasn’t a game, but of course she would think that. “Enjoy the rest of the evening. Don’t expect me to thank you in my speech later. I didn’t need you to get where I am.” <em>Yes, I did.</em></p><p>“You accuse me of trading on your mom’s name, but don’t forget Jon…” Dany turned away and walked up a few steps, before she turned and chuckled, leaving the parting shot. “So did you.”</p><p>He ground his teeth down, watching her leave. The sway of her hips, the swing of her ponytail. She didn’t look back; he was grateful for that. He ignored the sudden influx of people onto the stone terraces, coming out from the gala during a break. He waited a moment and then turned around completely, storming towards the exit.</p><p><br/>
He couldn’t be here right now; he needed to drink and to get away. Daenerys Targaryen always did this to him, and he was pissed he let it happen <em>again.</em> He would have Sansa accept the award for him; she’d love the opportunity to get up there. He fiddled with his phone but didn’t move to call her.</p><p>That would be just what Dany wanted. He couldn’t let that happen.</p><p><br/>
He puffed a little longer on the cartridge and eventually returned inside.<br/>
Neither one of them acknowledged the other, but at the end of the evening he stole a glance in her direction, where she was posing for photographs. He took a deep breath and moved towards her. He didn’t know why.</p><p>Sansa cut him off. “We have to go finish some interviews,” she said. She made a face. “And your horrid ex-girlfriend is here.”</p><p>“She’s not horrid,” he murmured, still gazing at the silver-haired beauty now laughing at something a photographer had said to her, so at ease and outgoing.</p><p>“What?” Sansa exclaimed. “Ygritte? She is horrid. Quick, she’s coming this way.”</p><p>He spotted his ex, edging through a crowd towards him, and he blinked in surprise. Oh yes, of course, that one was horrid. He rushed with Sansa to the interview pool, focusing on work. Work would get him through.</p><p>It always did.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
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"This isn't right!" Dany pulled her foot off the pedal, the machine stopping its comforting whir. She yanked up the bobbin, tore at the threads, and ripped the garment she had been sewing straight out. She ignored the scurrying of people around her and fumbled for a seam ripper among her tools, haphazardly scattered on the table beside her.</p><p>She ripped apart the seams, whatever she had been working on returning to multiple pieces of fabric instead of the dress she had been trying to create. It was just a sample, trying to get the idea from her sketchbook onto the dress form. Except she was so angry she could not quite see straight. It was messing with her creative vision.</p><p>The fabric fell to her knees, some of it slipping down to the floor to drape across her feet. Her elbows dropped to the edge of the sewing table and she closed her eyes tight, fingers clenching into her fists over her forehead. She had not been able to focus for weeks now. Not since the awards, since she and Jon...she swallowed hard, fresh memories of the evening returning to her.</p><p>The smell of his hair, the touch of his fingers, velvet and smooth slide of his tongue on hers...she blinked hard, forcing little red dots to her vision, but that did not stop the images, the sensations she felt again. It had been years since they kissed. It felt like the first time. All those other times too.</p><p>"Dany."</p><p>Missy's soft voice broke her thoughts, forcing her head up from her hands. "Yes?" she murmured.</p><p>Missy hopped off one of the other tables and swung a chair over to sit beside her. She covered her hand with hers, squeezing comfortingly. Her golden-brown eyes focused, gentle, on hers. "What's going on? You've been all over the place since the CFDW awards." Of course Missandei knew; Missandei knew everything about her. She would notice anything wrong. She also likely knew what happened or had an inkling and was only confirming a suspicion.</p><p>Dany blinked, red-eyed, at her best friend. "I kissed Jon," she whispered She jumped up to her feet, tripping on the ruined garment at her feet, hand yanking free of Missandei. There, she said it. She covered her mouth with her hand, the other going to push on her hip, eyes closing. "Or...he kissed me; I don't know...it was so fast."</p><p>She stuttered, gazing out the window at Dragonstone, the high peaks and cliffs of the island in the distance, fog coming in off the Narrow Sea. Her heart raced. "I don't know how it happened! We were so mad and shouting and...and then we were kissing..." She spun on her heel, laughing, pained. "I'm so confused I don't...don't know what's happening to me...why this bothers me..."</p><p>"It's because you're still in love with him" Missy said matter-of-fact. She propped her chin in her palm, elbow on the table. She quirked her lips to a smile, knowing smile.</p><p>"I'm not," she blurted. She was <em>not</em> still in love with him. They were rivals, in every sense of the word. Yes, they had what she might have called a <em>fling</em> with anyone else, but with Jon it had been an intense, whirlwind— snowstorm in his case—six months. She had been with other men longer, but none of them compared to the passion and the connection she had with Jon Snow.</p><p>Which was why when he broke her heart, she hadn't maintained a serious relationship with any man since. She didn't love him. Not after what he'd said to her. How he made her feel. She wiped at her eyes, surprised at the dampness in the corners. Now she was <em>crying</em>? What was happening to her?</p><p>Missy spun from side to side in her seat, softly smiling. "If it makes you feel better, he's still in love with you too."</p><p>"Jon snow's not in love with me," she said, automatic. He hated her. She fell back into her chair, shoulders falling in defeat. She blinked back tears. "Missy, he hates me."</p><p>"He has a funny way of showing it." She cocked her head, chuckling. "He's always at every fashion show you are, he's putting stores across from yours" –a reference to the news she got last week that L.Stark would be launching a new storefront right across from her planned retail location in Braavos— "He shows up at events he <em>knows</em> you are going to be at. He loves you."</p><p>"He hates me," she repeated.</p><p>"What happened?" Missy wondered out loud, clearly not bothering to continue repeating herself. Dany was glad, because it was not true. She frowned, dropping her hand down, the gold bangles on her wrist echoing. She quirked her eyebrow up. "I know very little about your time with him." For good reason, Dany thought, as Missy had met her after she left L.Stark, to launch her own brand.</p><p>"Just lots of...shit," Dany mumbled. She rubbed her bare arms, rocking forward nervously. She closed her eyes. Missy would never let her up or leave until she knew. She sighed. "I was a seamstress at L.Stark, then one of her assistants, before I started Dracarys. During and just after fashion school. Long before I went to work for Rosebud" – Olenna Tyrell's line— "And work my way up from there."</p><p>The time at Rosebud gave her the connections, the money, and the guts to strike out on her own. It was L.Stark where she became herself, she liked to think. She loved Olenna Tyrell, but she was practically running the place while Olenna and her granddaughter took the credit and the name. It was Lyanna who mentored her, gave her all the foundation she needed to become who she was. She continued. "I was there about two years when she promoted me. The others hated me. She just came into the workshop one day, tapped me n the shoulder, and said 'Congratulations, you're my assistant director of womenswear.'" She barked out a laugh. "She did that a lot. She was something else."</p><p>"So I've heard," Missandei murmured. She smiled wide. "I wish I could have met her."</p><p>"Yes," Dany agreed. Lyanna Stark was a model, an equestrian, a socialite...she could have just spent her family's money, but she did amazing work outside of her fashion line. She was something else. She smiled, in memory, of one of the first times she had met Lyanna. "She complimented my sewing. Said that it was the tightest stitching she had ever seen. Then she criticized the hemline on the dress I made. That was always how she was, a compliment with criticism, but never anything harsh. She never wanted you to get a big head, always had to keep improving."</p><p>Missandei frowned, concerned. "Dany, I don't know what is going on with you and Jon, but it's getting worse. You're distracted."</p><p>"I know," she sighed. She rubbed her forehead. "It's nothing." Nothing made sense anymore. It had been years. Why now? Everything was bubbling up. Always seeing each other, the attacks on each other getting bolder and louder. Until that kiss. Missandei was her best friend. She could trust her. She blinked, tired, and smiled sadly. "He hates me, Missy."</p><p>"No he doesn't...." she began.</p><p>"Yes he does," Dany interrupted. She pushed up to her feet and went over to one of the dress forms, half draped in muslin. She pulled off the fabric, trashing it into the recycle bin. She began to fuss with one of the dresses hanging on a rack nearby, a half-finished piece for Margaery to wear as a favor to her, for an upcoming interview she was doing. They planned to add a version of it to their ready-to-wear collection, still in the works for a debut at the future Braavos store.</p><p>She tugged it onto the form, knowing Missy wanted an answer. She heaved a sigh, quiet. "We were together...that much is obvious, I'm sure."</p><p>"I know that."</p><p>"Yeah well," she wrapped her pin cushion around her wrist and set about adjusting things here and there on the skirt, kneeling before the form. Her voice remained soft. "He showed up, after the military. He got hurt, he was so...angry. He started working for his mom. She made his clothes as a kid and he liked them, so he started making the men's collection. Researching branching out. That sort of a thing. He turned the company around, he's got a head for business." She ignored the prick of a pin in her finger instead of hitting the damn fabric. It happened. She sighed, rocking back onto her heels, meting Missy's gaze. "I left L.Stark after that summer. Because of him....because it was too much and...I was scared."</p><p>Missandei knew the rest; she was intuitive like that. She got up and knelt beside her, comforting, an arm going around her shoulder. "And he thought you abandoned him. Used his connections to create your line."</p><p>She nodded, tears pricking her eyes. It was so hurtful, the words he said. He really hated her. really believed that she would do something like that to him. She sniffed. "There was no reason to fight it." Fire bubbled inside of her. Any breakup between them was mutual. It wasn't like she wanted to say goodbye forever. She stabbed hard on the dress form, growling. "And he did. He said things...it was as much his fault...I didn't want to break up forever...just take a moment, go long distance, but he was the one who went off the deep end." She glared sideways. "And yes, we fight, but that's all it is now. Nothing more or less. He doesn't love me, he hates me, and honestly? Even if I still loved him, it wouldn't matter Missy." She launched to her feet, stalking to her sketching board, plopping back down and flipped to a new page, shooting her a look over top the tilted table. "Jon Snow is dead to me. No matter what happens from here on out, this is his fight to fight and I'm not going to back down."</p><p>She lifted a red pencil, tapping it to the table and grinned, dark. "Fire and blood is the motto of my family and I will make sure that Jon Snow suffers both."</p><p>And she began to sketch.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
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"Jon!"</p><p>Jon jumped, groaning when Ghost's paw landed right on his chest, another three jumping on as the 200-pound wolfdog used him as a launching pad to greet Arya. He sat up, rubbing his head and threw off the blanket tangled around his legs. He peered over at her and fumbled with his glasses, bringing her into better focus.</p><p>She came into the apartment he kept above the studio, bearing coffee and a bag of pastries, or so he hoped. "Morning," he mumbled, walking towards her.</p><p>Arya stopped hard, glaring at him as he entered the kitchen. "Morning?" she repeated. She snorted, handing him the coffee. "It's evening, you dummy. How long have you been sleeping?"</p><p>"Dunno. Couple hours maybe?" He lost track of time when there were things happening. Sometimes he didn't sleep for days, living on coffee and cigarettes. There were too many things to do. Last thing he remembered, he was going over the financials for the menswear collections, they were selling poorly in Lannisport, but they'd increased their sales in Dorne, thank the gods. He then had to do something for PR but wasn't sure what it was. Some sort of new magazine campaign.</p><p>Then there was the MET gala, the fashion week in Highgarden....there were plenty of things to do. He drained most of the scalding coffee and opened up the bag, removing a bagel. He wondered where she got a fresh bagel with whitefish this late in the day, but did not really care, especially when he bit into it and groaned, savoring the taste a moment. It certainly woke him up.</p><p>He polished off half the bagel, gave the rest to Ghost, and ignored most of what Arya was saying. something about how he'd become a hermit, Sansa was worried about him because he was starting to go into full micromanaging mode, and both Alys Karstark and Ned Umber were terrified to be in the same room as him after he apparently exploded on them both during a marketing meeting.</p><p>He didn't remember doing that, but maybe it happened. Alys was too shy for her own good and Ned was afraid of his own shadow.</p><p>"They're calling you Wolf Man," Arya continued. She followed him out of the apartment and down the stairs into the studio. He wandered by empty sewing machines, tables, and racks of fabric, thread, and garment bags, into his main office. He bypassed the large black desk with a carved wolf in the front, which had belonged to his mother and was now his and entered his private sewing and sketching area.</p><p>He dropped down at the machine, wondering what he'd been doing the night before. He studied the jacket, curiously picking at the seam on the shoulders. "Huh," he wondered, holding it up.</p><p>"Jon does that jacket have three arms?"</p><p>"No." <em>Yes.</em> He grabbed a seam ripper and began to tear at the third arm sticking out of the left side. It was supposed to be a coat that envisioned the Night's Watch. He leaned back in his chair and aimlessly tore at the thread. "They call me Wolf Man?"</p><p>Arya arched her brows. "Aye. It's not a good look, whatever the fuck this is." She waved her hand up and down.</p><p>He looked at himself; he was wearing a black t-shirt and sweats. Maybe his hair was wild, maybe his beard hadn't been trimmed in a few days, and it was entirely likely if you cut him open out would pour nicotine and coffee, but that was his life. He had a business to run. And no one was doing anything the way he wanted.</p><p>"I have three things I'm doing for the MET gala," he snapped at her. He shrugged. "And I have the spring and summer collection to worry about..."</p><p>"Sansa worries about the MET Gala, she's the one who designs the women's dresses and works with them," Arya reminded him, still trying to talk in what he believed was 'sense' but to him it was just 'nonsense.' "You sign off, you supervise, but Jon you don't design the women's collections unless it's a big thing."</p><p>"Like the MET gala," he corrected. He did so design the women's collections. Lyanna Stark made sure he was aware of every aspect of her business, even if he was the one in charge of the men's line.</p><p>She rolled her eyes. "You're losing control. Your workaholic thing made sense ages ago but now....it seems it's only for one reason." She got up and went to his sketchpad, fumbling with some of the pictures.</p><p>"No," he began, but it was too late. She removed the one he'd tucked back there a couple months ago, sighing hard. It didn't mean anything. It was just a fucking sketch.</p><p>Except it wasn't. It was the sketch he started a few months ago, after the craziness at the King's Landing fashion week, with Dany coming out on top in the reviews, the fact that yes, her coats and jackets looked just like his, but she'd innovated them further. That she'd been doing better in sales in her retail outlets than him. That she won that fucking award that meant nothing.</p><p>He kept coming back to it. Over and over, just adding here and there. It wasn't anything.</p><p>The sketch had the usual faceless figure, the colors of the gown a swirl of black and red. It wasn't very haphazard. It was serious. Like he was really working on it as a prototype. The faceless figure, on the other hand, had silver hair, done back in braids. The gown was one that a queen would wear. A Dragon Queen.</p><p>Like Dany.</p><p>Arya set the sketch down carefully. She walked by him, over to one of the black bags hanging in the corner, hidden behind some random forms and bins of fabric. "No," he murmured. He was too tired, he couldn't move. At his side, Ghost whined, butting his head against the palm of his draping hand. He knew better than to be in the studio—Ghost's hair could not get out of anything once it attached—although Jon didn't care right now.</p><p>She unzipped it and removed the gown, walking it to a naked form. Draped it on, pinning it where there wasn't a zipper or anything. When she stepped back, he sighed. It was the gown. The black and red, dragon scales starting on one of the arms, the skirt flipping between flames and scales...a dragon arising from the fire.</p><p>
  <em>Fire and blood.</em>
</p><p>The theme of that year's MET gala was to be Westerosi History. It had started as just an aimless thing to do when he needed to move his hands, and before he knew it, he was designing it. <em>Fire and Blood</em>, the Targaryen conquerors. Not necessarily something you would expect from someone who was the blood of First Men, a bastard of House Stark, but who could claim their heritage, nonetheless.</p><p>Arya didn't say anything and let the dress speak for itself. He pushed his fingers through his hair, curling around the ends and releasing after a moment, shoulders slumping, defeated. He shook his head, murmuring. "She hates me Arya."</p><p>"That's funny, I don't think she does."</p><p>He snorted. <em>Yeah right.</em> "I said things to her," he murmured, closing his eyes tight. It didn't negate the fact that she left. She left him, she ran off and started her own company. She took everything that she learned, and she used him and them. He slammed his brows together, cold. "Arya fuck it, it doesn't matter. She hates me and this is just business. Nothing more, nothing less. The dress is just...an idea."</p><p>To make it clear, he jumped up and stormed to the form, tearing the dress off the fake body, crumping and tossing it into a bin. He moved back to the sewing machine and grabbed the jacket he'd been fucking around with. It made him think of his mother. When she was stressed and angry, she would be at a sewing machine, making clothes or quilting. It was a skill her grandmother taught her, and she relished in the serenity of it.</p><p>He found that he liked it too. It made him think of her. The whirring and humming, the steady up and down, thread and even stitches. He missed her so much. That was the last time he'd seen Dany in circumstances that weren't fraught with anger. His mother's funeral.</p><p>They were coming up on five years since her death. Lyanna Stark never let anyone know she was sick, until she went into the hospital. He took her home, so she could die in her bed. A few days later at the weirwood tree in Winterfell, for her moonlight outdoor memorial service, he let Dany cry against him, and he cried against her, and for one night they were just Jon and Dany, like they had been.</p><p>And the following morning they were back to ripping at each other's throats. Grief had caused them to forget, but in the clear light of day he remembered. How she used him, how she didn't even tell him she was looking for another job, and then she was gone, and she claimed they could be on a break, they could do long-distance, but he knew. He knew it, because it was the same reason why Ygritte and Val had gone after him. He could bring them fame; he could put their faces on magazines.</p><p>Dany had been the first, she wouldn't be the last.</p><p>He was stupid to kiss her. She was standing there, hovering over him, and he had to do it. He scrubbed his face, glancing at his phone, which was resting on the edge of his desk in the other room, now ringing and buzzing its way towards the edge. "You should get that," Arya muttered, finally breaking the uncomfortable silence. She rolled her eyes. "And don't trash that dress. It's beautiful. Just...think about it. I don't think she did what you think she did to you. Otherwise you care a seven hells of a lot more about someone you should just ignore than anyone else who just...hates an ex."</p><p>Arya didn't know shit. She had one boyfriend her entire life and that was it. And he loved and adored her and would never hurt her. He stalked to the phone, saw his uncle's number, and wondered what this was about. Usually related to some dumb family event he'd end up skipping. Ned and Catelyn had not been as loving as his mother. "What's up?" he asked, answering brusquely.</p><p>"Jon, I'd like to talk to you about something that Sansa brought to my attention and I think would be a lovely idea for this gala. I've spoken to the right people down at the museum and they agree. Do you have time on Friday to discuss?"</p><p>He rolled his eyes. Sansa getting involved with anything and running to daddy never made him feel better. "Um, aye, I guess." He picked up a pencil, scratching it on a random scrap of paper. "What time?"</p><p>"Eleven should be good. Bring your sketchbook. Also, Robb and I are going stalking this weekend, we'd like you to join us."</p><p>HE hated stalking, thought it was boring. Plus he was a better shot than Robb or Ned, which always caused his competitive older cousin to get annoyed. He supposed he should agree, otherwise he'd be obligated to something far worse in the future. "Fine," he muttered.</p><p>"And Bran wants you to bring him another coat, he lost his last one."</p><p>"Those coats are over 2,000 gold dragons!" Jon yelped. It didn't matter to him, he could just go down into one of the storerooms and grab one up, but what the fuck Bran, he mentally noted.</p><p>"He thinks he left it on the train from Hardhome."</p><p>At least some member of the Free Folk was looking very stylish, Jon figured. "Fine, see you Friday." He didn't even think to ask what this was about. Ned would let him know. He dropped the phone and turned around, but Arya had left.</p><p>Ghost whined up at him ,tail thumping right on a fallen bolt of black silk. It was steadily turning gray, whorls of white dog hair floating around him. Jon rolled his eyes, chuckling. "I should start a new line," he teased, kneeling down to ruffle his ears, accept the kisses from his trusty companion. "Ghost fur coats, how about that?"</p><p>He licked his cheek, more fur flying around. Jon wrapped his arms around the wolf, burying his face into his fur, and after a moment, broke away and returned to the studio. He stared at the gown, lying in the bin. Ghost wandered to his side, staring with him. He reached in and took it out, studying the folds, the flame-like inner skirt.</p><p>And turned around, carrying it to the sewing machine, an idea forming.</p>
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<a name="section0002"><h2>2. the final piece</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jon and Dany are forced to work together; Dany discovers what Jon's been working on.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Eep, this took longer than planned.  Working on Christmas fics.  </p><p>HOPE YOU LIKE IT ERIKA!!!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
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</div><p> </p><p>Dany was not sure what to make of the call she received from Eddard Stark. <em>Lord</em> Eddard Stark, if one were to get specific. She had allowed Missandei to tear her from the studio, take her to get manicures and pedicures, and watch a movie, and generally try to get over the war inside her heart regarding her love and hatred of one Jon Snow.</p><p>The work would always be there, Missy said, and she could deal with it when she had a clearer mind after some good old-fashioned girl time. Except while she was sitting at the table, getting her nails painted crimson, she didn't realize her phone had been ringing, Daario livid that she hadn't been at the studio to accept the call.</p><p>So he apparently gave Ned Stark her personal number, and he called and left a message, which she hadn't gotten until she got home and saw the little '1' in a red bubble above the phone icon. He wanted to meet with her on Friday at his office in Winterfell, could she make it, he knew she was in Dragonstone, but it was something that had to be done in person.</p><p>She booked a flight, arrived the night before, and tried not to allow the overwhelming memories of Winterfell overtake her each time she gazed at the moors, the craggy mountains in the distance, and the stone and thatched roof buildings. The hotel she chose had no memories for her to think about, as it was built and opened after she left. It was serviceable; she liked to stay in places that were rather average, since most of the time she was never in the hotel to begin with.</p><p>A car picked her up and she arrived, sitting nervously in a chair outside of Ned's office like she was getting ready for a job interview. He'd been cryptic; only said he wanted to speak to her about something for Lyanna's memory, a project that his daughter Sansa had in mind and that he agreed with, and he'd spoken with the board at the MET who agreed.</p><p>The gala was in a month. That wasn't a lot of time, depending on what he wanted.</p><p>The heavy oak door, engraved with wolves and what she presumed to be a weirwood tree, tugged open, breaking Dany away from any further thoughts about <em>why</em> she was there. As now she would find out, she supposed, coming to her feet when Ned Stark exited the office, striding to greet her rather than waiting for her to come to him. Dany considered that a tick in his column for common decency.</p><p>She offered her hand, which he gladly took, firmly shaking. "Ms. Targaryen, it is lovely to see you again," Ned said. He had a kind face, but tired eyes, heavy bags under them. HIs sandy-brown hair was threaded with grayer than the last time she'd seen him, years before, when she was but a lowly seamstress working for Lyanna. He had been much younger too, but the stresses of the company, family, and she had to imagine losing his sister so young, had worn him down.</p><p>"You as well Lord Stark," she said, politely using his title.</p><p>"Ned, please," he corrected, although they both know she would never use that with him. He stepped aside, gesturing for her to enter his office. "I want to thank you for taking the time out of what I imagine is a busy schedule to fly up here to meet me. I am sorry for the cloak and daggers, I am afraid that I did not believe you would come otherwise."</p><p>She was intrigued, that was for certain. "Yes, of course. I must say I would like to know what this is about. It is a busy time for me." A polite way of demanding they cut the bullshit and get to business. She arched a brow, holding her portfolio in front of her, and pursed her crimson lips, waiting for him to explain.</p><p>As a businessman, he knew when to knock it off, and he nodded briefly. He moved around to his desk, taking a seat and gestured for her to do the same. She did, on the edge, ready to run if necessary. "I'm afraid we have to wait for one more person to join us."</p><p>"And who would that be? I did not realize this meeting was with anyone else." Dany despised being ambushed. She ground her back teeth, plastering a smile over his lips. Ned irritated her, the few times she had met him when she worked for L.Stark. He was never supposed to run the family business, but his oldest brother was never one for the company and he died in a motorcycle accident. In less than desirable circumstances too. Lyanna loved her younger brother, but she had a blind spot for family. Even so, she'd accused Ned a few times of being too "honorable" for true business.</p><p>Dany agreed. Ned was known for his honorable qualities and refusal to get dirty. Too trusting. It was why Stark Industries was nowhere near where it could be. She wished Lyanna's son had taken after that quality and not his mother's shrewdness. Maybe she wouldn't have to deal with him the way she had to nowadays. She gripped the handle on her portfolio. "Lord Stark, I'd like to know what this is about. I think I have been more than generous with my precious time and...."</p><p>Her words caught in the back of her throat, strangling her when the door opened, and she saw who was joining them. She sprang to her feet, prepared to fight, and noted that at least, so was he.</p><p>Jon Snow took one look at her, fury flashing in his icy gray eyes, and instantly shot them to his uncle. "No," he said, tone flat.</p><p>"Absolutely not!" Dany agreed.</p><p>Ned pinched his nose between his index finger and thumb, inhaling deep. "Will you both take a seat and at least listen to the idea I am proposing? Please?" He pointed to the chair opposite her. It was at least six feet apart. Dany wished it were more. That was too close to Jon snow for her liking. They could still do incredible damage to each other at that distance. "Jon, sit down, Ms. Targaryen, please, you too."</p><p>If only for professionalism's sake, she sat back down, glaring at Jon. He had something to do with this ambush, even if he was scowling like one of the wolves engraved on the desk and affixed to just about every single piece of decor in the office space. The Starks were boring. Lyanna's artistic spirit had clearly come from somewhere else.</p><p>She kept a wary watch on Jon Snow, who did the same to her, gnashing his teeth every so often, a muscle ticking in his jaw. Ned opened up a folder on his desk and calmly addressed them both. "Sansa had an idea that I thought would be quite nice for this year's MET gala. I confess I do not know much about the fashion industry—" Jon snorted and Ned scowled—"But I do know my sister was beloved by many. As this is the ten-year anniversary of her death, Sansa mentioned perhaps the Starks should do something in honor of it. I agreed. I spoke with the organizers of the gala and the museum's board."</p><p>Dany made mental note to <em>murder</em> one of those board members who happened to be her brother Viserys. No doubt he thought this was entertaining. Or he had zero idea because they hadn't spoken in years. Either way, it gave her another reason to kill him. "I do not understand why I am here," she cut in. "This sounds like a Stark matter."</p><p>"You are here," Ned carried on. "Because I know you were very close with my late sister. She considered you her protégée, like she did with her son. I know that in her will she bequeathed you certain items, which she did with no one else."</p><p>The mention of Lyanna's will had Jon lurching forward in his seat, jamming his finger down onto the desk repeatedly. "She left her drawings and some money for her fashion line, that means nothing!"</p><p>The lash over her heart sent hot blood pouring through her body, hearing him refer to it like that. She closed her eyes. He had been hurt by her decision to leave, but it wasn't like that. Of course he latched on to it as another reason to hate her. "They weren't just drawings," she muttered, but Jon was continuing his rant, saying something now about how he would do whatever it was Ned wanted to commemorate his mother, and he would do it alone.</p><p>That was always Jon's modus operandi. Work alone, be alone, and leave everyone else out in the cold. She spoke over Jon, studying Ned's tired expression. "What sort of idea did you have in mind for this commemoration? Or should I say, what idea did the MET agree to have?"</p><p>"Jon, stand down," Ned ordered. Jon sank back into his seat, surly and slumping, an annoyed teen rather than a grown man. He smiled at Daenerys. "Thank you, Ms. Targaryen. The theme of this year is Westerosi History and I know you both have duties relating to outfitting others for the event..."</p><p>"I know I do; I don't know about Dany."</p><p>Dany scowled. "I have two designs I am working with, yes, but for Lyanna I will make time."</p><p>"Good, because the idea was to show tribute to Lyanna with a series of works, at your discretion what they would be, that showed who she was as a person, her contribution to the industry, and her unique role in Westerosi History." Ned nodded to the family tree tapestry hanging near his desk. "As in, her role in the Stark family."</p><p>Jon's upper lip twitched behind his finger, which he had resting over it, his chin in his palm. He squinted. "You want us to do five different pieces? Together?"</p><p>"Her son and current CEO and creative designer for L.Stark, her eponymous fashion label, and her protégée who would not be here if not for Lyanna's influence," Ned summarized. He pushed the folder across the desk to them. "These are the terms the board and the organizers agreed to and other pertinent information." He nodded to Dany. "I asked you to bring a portfolio of your designs because i wanted to see what sort of things might work, but I do confess that you are the experts here. Is there anything you have that you think might work?"</p><p>Her violet eyes bugged out of her skull and she barked a laugh. "Not that I am willing to show a competitor." She shot a mistrustful look in Jon's direction; he was smirking. "I want a contract drawn up before I agree to anything. Neutral territory to make these designs. I don't want him snooping and stealing my creations."</p><p>"That's your role, not mine," Jon snapped.</p><p>Ned held his hands up. "Fine, I'll talk to the MET organizers. The woman I believe you will be speaking with is Margaery Tyrell. She's overseeing this venture."</p><p>Dany was going to kill Margaery. No doubt she thought this was hilarious. As she was outfitting Margaery for the event and Margaery hadn't mentioned a damn thing about this, it really pissed her off. "Margaery is with Rosebud," she explained. "It's another fashion label, but as part of the Tyrell family she also takes on patronages, I believe the MET is one of hers."</p><p>"Well I suppose she will be in touch then when I let her know you agreed to this." Ned smiled again between them both. He lifted his hands, gesturing for them to depart the office. "I have work to do. Thank you again for coming out Daenerys and for agreeing to this."</p><p>She ran her tongue over her teeth. "I have not agreed yet." It was a moot point. Of course she'd do this. Honoring Lyanna? It was a done deal. There were schematics to discuss, but she knew she'd be doing it. She stood and sighed. "Thank you, Lord Stark. I'll be in town a few more hours if you need me." She turned, leaving and walked right by Ned's assistant in the outer office, who was trying to hand her something. She grabbed it without asking what it was and got to the elevator, refusing to look back at the heavy steps moving towards her.</p><p>The bell for the elevator dinged and she stepped in, glancing at the paper that was apparently something from Margaery about this very thing. she shook her head, sighing. It felt like a setup. Sansa's idea, Margaery agreeing to it all, Ned bringing her here. She had Margaery's MET gala dress to work on as well as a dress for Val Rayder, a model who she knew had dated Jon, and while that was good enough reason to dress her, she was also gaining quite the buzz for her recent forays into acting. It was better Val, who had a nicer reputation than Ygritte, she decided.</p><p>The doors began to close, when a hand shot out, stopping them. Dany looked up, startled, and instantly stiffened when Jon entered. He turned around and leaned against the back wall, hands in his pockets. They said nothing. The elevator began to descend, only five floors, but just before the second, Jon lazily leaned forward and pushed a button at the bottom of the panel, an alarm honking and the car halting with a clang and thud, knocking her sideways from the sudden stop.</p><p>She gaped. "What the fuck are you doing!?"</p><p>He turned around, smiling calmly at her. "Setting terms. We do this in Winterfell. I'm not going down South..."</p><p>"Fuck off, we do it at Dragonstone, it's bigger!"</p><p>They glared, standing off. He ran his tongue over his teeth and arched a brow. "if we do it at Winterfell, I'll let you have final creative decision on three of the five designs."</p><p>She squinted. That was very good. "The catch?" she murmured.</p><p>"We can only have two of those three look like fucking dragons."</p><p>"Oh fuck off."</p><p>They argued back and forth for about twenty minutes in the damn elevator car. Obviously, they would do a full sweep of his studio and she would bring none of her designs so they couldn't cheat and copy from each other, not that Dany would ever do that. They each agreed to have one assistant each-- Jon's was his right-hand man Satin and Dany's of course would be Missandei. They would spend approximately three weeks together working on the collection. That was all Dany was willing to give to stay at Winterfell, otherwise he could come on down to Dragonstone.</p><p>"Three weeks is enough time," he agreed. He smirked. "You bring five designs to me. I bring five designs too. We start there."</p><p>"Fine," she snapped. She arched her brow. "So? When do we begin?"</p><p>Jon flashed a feral wolf grin, which Dany wasn't sure was a good thing or a bad thing.</p><p>All she knew is that she didn't think either one would make it out of this alive.</p><p>Or at the very least, they'd come out with a hell of a lot of claw marks.</p><p> </p>
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  <em>One Month Later</em>
</p><p>The collection was a disaster.</p><p>Dany stared at the black and gray fabric tatters pinned to the dress form, wondering what they were supposed to be. She pushed her fingers into her hair, knocking askew pencils she'd shoved here and there in her braids, poking herself with her pincushion cuff, and almost strangling herself with her measuring tape, which tightened around her neck from where it was wrapped up into her hair as well. She yanked at the table, balling it up and tossing it to the table.</p><p>She pinned her hands on her hips, glaring over at Jon, who was at the sewing machine. She hated how hot he looked when he sewed. No man should look hot at a fucking sewing machine, but Jon Snow was practically melting the damn machine. And she was furious she was even noticing his attractiveness. She chalked it up to Stockholm Syndrome. They'd spent too long with each other. Three fucking weeks.</p><p>And they were nowhere near done.</p><p>It was an impossible deadline of course. Couture gowns did not just spring up out of nowhere. That was why fashion shows always made her laugh. It also made her take note of the ones who were actually really good, to do such impeccable pieces with such little time. They had to do five pieces together and they had a complete warehouse of fabric, legions of seamstresses, and the best quality tools at their disposal.</p><p>Resulting thus far in absolutely fucking nothing.</p><p>They fought over everything or they didn't speak to each other. Dany thought they could be professionals. She was appalled to find that even when hey tried, it was fraught with tension, passive-aggressive comments, and general attempts to get under each other's skin. They even agreed to just <em>let it go.</em> To just <em>work.</em> Even then it was difficult.</p><p>Because each time she caught sight of Jon Snow, her irritation with him bubbled up like lava atop a caldera. It was years of angst and frustration coming to a head. And the slightest touch, their hands brushing over the same pencil on the table or knocking into each other as they draped fabric together, she kept flashing back to that intense kiss at the awards show. Which brought her back to other times. Times when they were laughing and giggling and smiling and being complete fools.</p><p>Six months of it, unable to keep their hands from each other, and now they could hardly stand to touch.</p><p>She scowled over at him, sewing at something. He lifted his foot from the pedal, the machine stopping as he inspected the hem of a pair of black trousers. They were doing a trouser and coat set, the coat would be the showcase of the outfit itself, plush navy velvet with intricate embroidery, which she'd be working on, to give off a feminine military vibe, the embroidery simulating weirwood branches and snowfall.</p><p>It was one of the outfits he was allowed to contribute, while she worked on one of the gowns, a floaty, dreamy piece of black and gray, with sequins scattered throughout the cape-like sleeves, to look like what she thought ashes might be like. They agreed on <em>nature.</em> That was their inspiration. Lyanna loved nature. She loved horses, the Wolfswood, and the weirwood tree, extremely devout to the Old Gods.</p><p>And yet even upon that agreement they were behind.</p><p>"Taking your sweet time over there," she groused, desperate for some sort of sound to fill the empty space. It was late. They were the only ones left in the studio, sending home the others. She'd cut Missandei loose the previous week to return back to Dragonstone to keep working on the gowns for Margaery and Val.</p><p>They had two months left for the show itself, but they needed to be ready before that. Finishing touches to the garments, working on the actual display in the museum in King's Landing, and then working on their other things. They had businesses to run.</p><p>And she was sorely behind on actual work.</p><p>Jon glared over top the sewing machine. He'd pushed his glasses up to his forehead, his curls holding them back and keeping from falling over his face. He was wearing eyeliner, which annoyed her because it was both hot and also juvenile. He looked like an idiot. He ran his thumb over the hem, shaking his head. "What are you doing? That looks like stuff you pulled from the trash."</p><p>"Oh fuck off."</p><p>"You first."</p><p>Dany ripped off the pieces that were meant to be part of her second garment, crimson and pale gray, inspired by the weirwood itself. "This isn’t going to work," she stated.</p><p>Jon returned to sewing. He spoke over the sound of the machine. "What isn't?"</p><p>"Us. Being like this." She walked over to the wall, unplugging the machine.</p><p>It sparked and hissed, electricity surging into it after being cut off from the wall. "Fuck!” he exclaimed, springing backwards and shoving his thumb into his mouth from where he'd obviously been shocked. He flung his arms out to the side. "What was that? This place is old Dany, you can't just yank that out of the wall!"</p><p>"Oh I know it's old, I worked here remember?" She was furious with him. Tired of fighting. She stormed through the studio to one of the far corners and fell hard onto one of the chairs, which wheeled back against the wall. She pushed forward on her feet and slammed her hands onto the worktable, livid. "And this was <em>my</em> table! I sewed how many dresses here? How many coats and jackets and pants? I cut my hand on <em>this</em>..." she jumped up and ran to the fabric room, with him chasing after her. She hit hard on the table and pointed to the arm of the large cutter. "This cutter!" Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. "And you were the one who took me to the urgent care and sat with me when I got three stitches." She lifted up her left pinkie finger, where there was still a faded white scar. "Right there!"</p><p>Now she was on a roll. She pushed at the racks and racks of gowns, bins of fabric, laughing maniacally. "And these....all this fabric? I remember when you kissed me there for the first time." She sniffed, remembering it. They had been arguing over what would make the best material for a dress she had been creating to show Lyanna. Whether it should be silk or tulle for one of the layers in the skirt. She pulled on a roll of red tulle, wrapping it up around her shoulders, whispering to him. "And you did this, and you kissed me here."</p><p>It was dangerous. To bring up those memories. She wondered if he'd been thinking of them too. HIs gray eyes flashed warningly. Except she could also see something else in them. The same thing she'd seen at the awards show, months ago. Desire, want, desperate <em>need.</em> Irritation, dislike, abject <em>hatred.</em> Hurt.</p><p>It was hurt. The same as her.</p><p>He had no reason to be hurt; she did <em>nothing</em> to hurt him, when all he had ever done was hurt her. Maybe now, that's what she was doing, and she tightened her grip on the tulle, seeing through blurry tears. "You kissed me here and there--" she pointed to the other side of the room at the door to his office. It used to be Lyanna's. "And never stopped. Not even at the awards show. What was that Jon? Did you just want to hurt me?"</p><p>"Maybe I did," he mumbled. His index finger flicked over his thumbnail. He had painted his nails black. he wore black eyeliner. Sometimes she wondered if he thought he was in some sort of emo rock band instead of an haute couture designer and CEO. He hesitated, those gray eyes flickering more angst than dislike at the moment. "Stop talking about it."</p><p><em>I'm getting to him.</em> "About what? About us?" She laughed, letting go of the tulle, storming towards him. She pushed on his shoulders, knocking him a step backwards. He warned her, cocking his head. She didn't care. Let the wolf bite, the dragon could breathe fire. "I'm so tired of this Jon. It isn't going to work. We're supposed to be doing this for Lyanna and we can't even look at each other!"</p><p>"So don't look at me then!"</p><p>"I can't!"</p><p>"Why not!?" he roared. Except he was now staring straight at her. His hand came up, softer than she expected, cupping her face. He leaned over her. "Why not?" he murmured.</p><p>"Jon, no." This was like the awards show all over again, but worse. Because there was no one around. There was no one she could use to hide behind, return to, just the two of them in all their tortured glory. It was the worst feeling, vulnerable, naked, only her emotions there to protect her. Flimsy protection at that. She struggled against him, trying to get free, which served to tighten his grip on her. His other hand launched out from somewhere, grabbing her shoulder, stilling her in place. She begged, tears trickling down her face. Perhaps she could leave with a tiny bit left of her dignity. "Forget it. Just...forget...Jon…no…"</p><p>And he kissed her.</p><p>Unlike the awards show, this did not punish her, it did not attempt to prove anything. It was desperate, longing, his lips pressing insistently against hers, warm and soft. She opened her mouth under his, gasping, surprised. Oh gods, she thought, bowing towards him when he moved to pull away from her. No, no, no, she chanted silently, her fingers curling tightly in the soft silk of his shirt, bringing him closer.</p><p><br/>
He did not need further prompting, knowing she wanted it too. Their tongues slid together, gliding easily, as he devoured her, and she devoured him. She tugged him closer, whining at the delicious feeling of his hard body flush against hers, the hard bulge against her soft belly, and his groans muffled with each press of her lips to his. He pulled back long enough to breathe, lock eyes with her, and with a subtle nod, he was kissing her again, tugging her down to the floor, and his hands splaying out over her back, reaching down to tug at her shirt hem.</p><p><br/>
It flew over her head, breasts bouncing free; she hadn’t been wearing a bra and thank gods she decided that morning to go without, because his mouth was soon over the soft swells, beard abrading the sensitive skin. She did not just lay back, her head pillowed on the bunch of tulle she’d dropped to the floor when he’d started kissing her, but keened up against him, legs falling open to cradle his body to hers, and her fingers tangling in his hair, savoring the soft nips and swirling warm tongue around one nipple and then the other. He released each with a smacking ‘pop’, before skimming his lips down the valley between them and over her stomach, tongue tracing around her navel.</p><p><br/>
His hands did not idle; she loved that about him, he was always moving. He unbuttoned her jeans and rolled onto his haunches to pull them off her legs. She leaned back on her elbows, kicking them free. She took the opportunity when he moved to throw them to join on the floor nearby with her shirt, to grab his neck again, bringing his mouth to hers once more. He was so good at getting her to lose control; the tight, tenuous control she tried to have on everything in her life.</p><p>And she began to lose herself, as easily as if he’d just snapped his fingers, his breath hot against her cunt, pleasure fluttering up through her belly into her chest. She tangled her fingers in his hair, her head restlessly moving from side to side, soft whimpers escaping her as his tongue flattened against the scrap of lace over her cunt, teasing licks and flicks. She arched her hips, forcing her eyes open to watch him. He was watching her; he usually did. He once told her that his favorite thing to see in the world was her losing herself completely, and one of his favorite things was knowing he had been the one to do that to her.</p><p><br/>
Tongue circling her clit through the fabric, she finally spoke to him, gasping. “Please Jon…please.”</p><p><br/>
He pushed himself up and over her again, capturing her lips again. She groaned, biting on his bottom lip, his fingers pushing the fabric aside, before curling around the string near her hip and yanking, his grunt of effort swallowed by her mouth. Her hands ran over the smooth expanse of his shoulders, over his upper arms, and then up his neck again to his face, tracing the cording and bunching muscles. She wanted to touch more of him, but she also wanted him inside of her.<br/>
The desperate need inside of her, the desire smearing on the insides of her thighs, grew uncomfortable, the longer they teased each other. Lips, tongues, and hands touching everywhere they could reach. She used the distraction she’d managed by kissing the soft spot behind his ear to grip his hips with her thighs, pushing him over so she could roll atop him.</p><p><br/>
His cock nestled against her swollen cunt, still trapped behind layers of denim. She kissed over his chest and stomach, fingernails scratching lightly in her wake, teasing the dips and ridges she discovered. “Dany, fuck,” he cursed. He traced his fingertip down her cheek, her eyes rolling to meet his, as she mimicked his earlier torture of her onto him, nails and tongue fondling him through his jeans. He lifted his hips, jerking involuntarily, and groaned. “Stop torturing…”<br/>
“But it’s fun,” she giggled, before she took mercy on him and rose back up to kiss him, hand finally disappearing under the waistband, and took him into her hand, long, thick, and velvety warmth. She slid her palm and fingers along his length, thumb flicking at the sensitive tip, and freed him from the confines to brush against her warm, wet cunt.</p><p><br/>
Teasing did not go over well. He flipped her onto her back again, the studio floor softened by the unraveled bunches of tulle, silk, and other fabric pooled under her. He teased her, fingers sliding along her cunt, while his cock rested against her thigh, heavy and warning, as she wished he’d just stop and fill her. Except this was Jon and nothing with him was ever easy as that. He slipped his fingers in and out, thumb flicking her clit, while he laved at her nipples again, and moved back down over her.</p><p>And then his mouth was over her once more, but this time he was there, for real, and she could do nothing more than sob his name and savor the orgasm rising inside of her, idly thinking that his tongue was as perfect and wonderful as she remembered it. “You do such good things with that mouth of yours,” she mumbled, pressing her cunt up into his face again, as he chuckled against her. She wanted to quip how he should use it only for this, but then she was coming. It hit her like she’d smacked straight into a wall, rising up, bit by bit, and then it was over her, hard and swift. She cried his name again, her thighs tight around his head, and his fingers pressing into the divots near her hip bones, holding her in place as she rocked against him, unable to stop.</p><p><br/>
The orgasm went on forever, but it wasn’t enough, because she needed him inside of her. She pulled at him, saying nothing, and kissed him, the musky taste of her release on his tongue, which only teased her more. “Inside,” she gasped, breathing ragged. “Please.”</p><p><br/>
He was already there, tugging her hips up to his. He waited a moment, locking eyes with hers, as he levered himself up, teasing his cock along her cunt, nestling inside the pink, glistening folds, but not pressing forward just yet. They both wanted him there, but they also knew once he did…things would not go back to how they had been. They’d need to talk. To address whatever the fuck this was.</p><p><br/>
It was going to happen anyway, regardless, she thought briefly, reaching down to wrap her hand around him, lining him up. He pressed his forehead to hers, and their breaths mingled together, hot and gasping, as they tried to restrain themselves. It was too hard; she gave up first, arching her hips at the same time he punched his forward, and he was inside of her, barely. He groaned and tensed, keeping from seating himself fully inside in one stroke. She closed her eyes tight, welcoming the intrusion. It had been a long time, her body tight as he slipped in, more and more, stretching and filling.</p><p><br/>
They stilled, when he was finally flush. She was surprised, his mouth falling open and his fingers tight on her hips, holding her against him. Dany watched his face, the furrow in his brow, the pleasure rippling through him. She clutched a hand around the tulle near her head, her other tight on his hip. “Jon,” she whimpered, silently begging him to move. He touched his forehead to hers and he rocked against her, slow, shallow thrusts. She was so wet, each thrust slid easier and easier, stroking her walls, her body taking him in, deep and deeper.</p><p><br/>
He was always inside of her, not just his cock, but his heart, slamming in tandem with hers, their bodies damp with sweat, heat rising and smothering them. She rolled her hips, watching briefly as he sank into her, again and again. She closed her eyes, neck arching and her foot digging into his arse, pushing him harder into her. She wanted to feel him. Everywhere. Anywhere. She moved faster, spurring him to increase his pace, his force. They slammed into each other, cries rising together, and he shifted up, his hands releasing her to grab hold of the tulle, caging her in, the tension and passion tightening inside of her, an unsprang coil.<br/>
“Fuck,” she moaned, their noses brushing as he kissed her, frantic and desperate. “Jon.”</p><p><br/>
His hand grabbed suddenly, clenching in hers, and he tensed; she knew he was close, as was she, her movements erratic, strained cries escaping her, the feeling of him driving her to the brink of sanity. She tightened around him, unable to stop the onslaught. She fell apart. Shattered. Everything broke and cracked and exploded. His fingers were locked in hers; interlaced so tightly she could not tell where he began, and she ended.</p><p><br/>
There was nothing either could do. He shuddered against her, hips jerky, and he was crying out her name, the sound of it a harsh and endless gasp in her ear. He buried his face into the crook of her neck, and she sobbed out, feeling him flood into her. It was like coming home, she thought, oddly enough. It always had.<br/>
Everything stilled around them both.</p><p><br/>
She pried her eyes open long enough to take in the look of him, the way his pupils blew black from want, the relaxed softness of his face, and the lazy smile tugging on his lips. She kissed him gently, releasing his hands and wrapping her arms around his neck. He lay gently against her, still inside of her, and she savored it, as long as they could.</p><p><br/>
When he pulled out of her, rolling gently to the side, he kept his arm over her breasts, his fingertips raking over her cheeks. She refused to acknowledge that he may have scraped a tear or two. <em>Or it could be sweat</em>, she convinced herself. She turned her face, seeing his eyes had closed, and his chest, which had previously been rising and falling rapidly, had slowed, deep and even.</p><p><br/>
They were lying together on the floor, fabric tangling around them as she rolled to her side and he drew her against his. It was warm, the old radiator heat causing the room to feel stifling. She closed her eyes, listening to his heart a moment, the steady thud of it against his ribs, the whooshing pulse of his blood she could feel through his heated skin. She didn’t understand how this could happen.</p><p><br/>
They hated each other, their hearts were still trying to mend from years ago, the hurtful words and actions. The misunderstandings. She clenched her eyes shut, remembering what he’d said to her, and her heart broke again. Only for him to try to staunch it, as his arm clutched her to his chest. He brushed his fingers over her hair, dragging the braids and sweaty strands away, and twisted in the ends, ultimately coming to rest at the center of her back.<br/>
And their eyes met again, gazing through hooded, sleepy looks, sated, coming down from the adrenaline rush. She wrinkled her nose, whispering. “Your eyeliner is all smeared.”</p><p>It was the first thing she thought to say, for some reason, and he laughed, thankfully. He quirked his lip. “I know how much you fucking hate it.”<br/>
“You look like a constipated emo teenager.”</p><p><br/>
They laughed, tired bodies seeking each other out again. She looked up at the exposed beams in the ceiling, the slanted eaves and rafters. They were wrapped in expensive fabric, the remnants of their coupling staining it, but she didn’t care. She kissed him once again, finding it easier than to try to put anything else into words. They were never good at that part anyway.</p><p><br/>
He reacted accordingly, like she thought he would, and after a moment, he tore from her and climbed to his feet, snatching up his jeans. He hopped into them and left them open, reaching down for her hand, bringing her up. When she went to pick up her clothes, he wrapped her up in a stretch of the silk, and grabbed hold of her arse, lifting her up against him. She instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist, smiling against his lips, kissing again.</p><p><br/>
They could figure it out later. Otherwise, she was just fine whatever this was…being just sex. Although she knew it wouldn’t be. It was too painful for it to be just that.</p><p>Like it always had been.</p><p> </p>
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</div><p> </p><p>"You know you really shouldn't smoke, it's bad for you."</p><p>The soft words behind him had Jon smiling around the cigarette. He lowered it from his lips, flicking at the ashtray sitting on the sill in front of him, beside his knee. He had his legs stretched out; ankles crossed. The window pushed open, allowing a cool breeze into the room. He turned the cigarette around towards her, smirking briefly. "You want a taste?"</p><p>She shouldn't look as good as she did, wearing only his black sweater, but godsdamnit, the years had been good to Daenerys Targaryen. He had never denied that. She was the most beautiful woman in the world. No one could compare. He wondered how he had managed to be with Ygritte and Val, both constantly competing to take that spot from her. It just wasn't possible. Losing battle. She shook her fingers through her knotted, tousled silver hair, sending it in further teased waves over her shoulders and padded barefoot to him, climbing up onto the other side of the window seat and took the smoke.</p><p>After a couple seconds, she made a face, blowing out a stream towards the open window, coughing slightly, handing him back the joint. "Where'd you get that? It's terrible."</p><p>"It's called Greenseer, got it from Bran, he loves it" He made a face, taking another pull and coughed, holding it in a movement and squeaked out. "Kind of strong."</p><p>"I'll say."</p><p>He stubbed it out and pushed the ashtray aside. They sat quietly, gazing out the window at the night. The sex was amazing, as always. It had never been bad, even when they were young and foolish, stumbling over each other. They were both late bloomers, they'd discovered, that first night, both flushing embarrassed, and then relieved to discover that deep, dark secret they hadn't shared with anyone. Daenerys was his first. His only, he suspected, and he hated that about her.</p><p>She drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. HIs sweater sleeves were too long on her arms and she had to shake her wrists back a few times. She swallowed hard, whispering. "What happens now Jon?"</p><p>He said the obvious. "We have a collection to finish." <em>Now that the itch is scratched. Tension diffused.</em> He debated saying so. He closed his eyes. His heart ached. "Can you do that?"</p><p>Voice hard, cold. It was the easiest thing to be right now. Wall it off. It would hurt too much otherwise. She closed her mouth, setting her lips in a grim line. “Yeah,” she murmured, just as cold as him. She swung her legs off the seat, moving to grip the edge, face sad. It broke his heart. It hurt deeper, that wound from years before never quite healed, constantly opening, and here it was again, gaping. Like it was yesterday.</p><p>He tried to push it away, bury it deep down underneath everything else going on in his life and mind. This collection, the company…the grief he still hadn’t quite handled after his mother’s death. He reached for the joint and idly flicked his lighter over the end, lifting it back to his lips. He inhaled, held it, and exhaled a thin stream of smoke out the open window. He felt fuzzy; hence the pot. He closed his eyes, leaning against the windowpane. “It’s just easier,” he murmured.</p><p>“Obviously. Needs to be easy.” She got to her feet, fussing with the ends of the sweater a moment. Eventually she spoke, turning around to face him, once more her face cool. The Dragon Queen. “I’m going to go, but before I do, let me ask you a question.”</p><p><em>Please don’t.</em> He rolled his eyes towards her, meeting her pained violet-hued gaze. He swallowed nervously, throat bobbing. “Alright,” he whispered.</p><p>She crossed her arms over her chest and smiled sadly. “After everything we said to each other, all that we did…all that your mother did for me….do you truly, deep in your heart, believe I would ever take advantage of the opportunities she gave me to promote my own self-interest?” His eyes widened. She continued, her voice cracking. “Because I was pretty sure you were the love of my life and when I told you I was leaving, I made sure to let you know that I was doing it to separate myself from the L.Stark brand. I didn’t want to leave you, I told you I wanted to stay together…just take a break. It was too much Jon. It might have been a mistake, but I had no intention of falling in love.” She took a deep breath, laughing. “And then I did. And you broke my heart. Because I was in love with you and when you just assumed, I used you…well…maybe it wasn’t love.”</p><p><em>Gods Dany, it was love. That’s why it hurt so much.</em> He set the joint in the ashtray and lifted his legs up, coming to stand, and stepped to her. He touched her hand, lightly slipping their fingers together, watching the moonlight play over their pale skin. He closed his eyes, pushing that hurt away. “I said things,” he began.</p><p>“You had so many years to apologize to me Jon, it doesn’t matter anymore.”</p><p>“I’m not…” he huffed. He lifted his free hand to her face, running his thumb over her cheekbone. He loved her so much. Always had. He was young and scared and foolish. He wasn’t supposed to fall in love either. “I fucked up,” he eventually said. It didn’t accurately portray what he did. The words he said to her. Shouting at her. Sending her away. Refusing to work with her and basically ensuring she would hate him forever. It made it easier. He dropped his forehead to hers, whispering. “I made a mistake.”</p><p>She nodded hard. “I did too…I should never have left like I did…”</p><p>“I shouldn’t have accused you of using me.”</p><p>They kissed, both seeking out the other, arms snaking tight around each other. He squeezed her hard, not wanting to let go. She smelled so good and felt so perfect in his arms. She was meant to be there. He pushed his face into her neck, after they broke their kiss, and held his breath when she spoke, her voice cracking. “I have to go. We can finish the collection via conference calls…it will be easier.”</p><p>
  <em>It will be easier.</em>
</p><p>He screwed up his face, nodding. There was too much history between them. At least they could be civil. He pulled back, brushing her hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “It’ll be for the best,” he whispered. He tried to smile but found he couldn’t. It hurt too much. He took a deep breath, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling and exhaled, before he looked down at her. She was smiling, gentle, knowing. He forced out his smile; it was a grimace. “Where does this leave us?”</p><p>Dany shrugged. “At the end, I guess.”</p><p>They had completed the circle, he figured. Finally had it out. Let the tension explode and now it was gone. “My mom told me I was a fool for letting you go,” he whispered, remembering Lyanna’s furious words when she found out they’d broken up. He hadn’t listened to her, when she said that she told Dany it was time for her to move on, to become more than a seamstress. He just saw it as another person leaving him. Another person who didn’t want him.</p><p>“She was a smart lady,” she chuckled. She shook her head, whispering. “I should go. It’ll be easier.”</p><p>“Aye.”</p><p>Several minutes later, he was walking her to the door. He nodded to the half-finished gowns she’d done. “I’ll send those to you at Dragonstone. You can finish them there. I’ll finish mine here.”</p><p>“Sounds like a plan.” She slung her bag over her shoulder and stilled, a few seconds of tense silence between them. Until she reached up and kissed him lightly, whispering. “Goodbye Jon.”</p><p>It wasn’t as final as it should be, he thought, leaning against the door, watching her walk off into the cold night. He wrapped his arms around himself and glanced down at Ghost, who stared up, knowing it was wrong. It was for the best. “Goodbye Dany,” he said, closing the door with an echoing ‘click.’</p><p>He stood on the other side for a long time. Ghost nudged his leg after enough time had passed for even the wolf to be concerned. Jon turned away and went up to the studio, flicking on one of the lamps. He walked to the corner, removing the gown from the bag. Dany hadn’t seen it, adhering to their rules not to go poking around in anyone’s current work. He stared at it for a long time and looked over at the two outfits he agreed to do. He rang his tongue over his teeth and yanked the dress off the hanger.</p><p>They were entering new territory in their relationship.</p><p>Jon figured he might as well just go all-in. And even if she didn’t like it, at least he’d have something extra to add. His mother would like it. She’d tell him he was a dumbarse, apologize, fall on his sword, and everything, but in the end, she’d like it. Lyanna Stark was a hopeless romantic.</p><p>So he would do something a hopeless romantic would like.</p><p>He grabbed a set of scissors and began to cut into the fabric, destroying what he’d done. Dany would appreciate that. Sometimes you had to burn something down in order for it to grow back, better and stronger than before.</p><p>Like them.</p><p> </p>
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</div><p> </p><p>“I can’t believe we fucking did it.”</p><p>To be honest, so was she. Dany looked at all the beautiful designs, lined up and ready to march out on the runway. It would be a showstopping even to the gala, which had already been quite a success. She’d avoided the red carpet, sticking to her table, and then disappearing into the back to prepare for the event. Originally the plan had been to just show off the designs as if they were in a museum, but when she’d seen what they’d come up with, how it all just meshed perfectly together, she wanted it out there, the way clothes should be, on bodies, moving and flowing.</p><p>The MET Gala board agreed, and it became an even bigger event. Westerosi History, with a Tribute to Lyanna Stark, by Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen. Everyone who didn’t have a ticket suddenly wanted one, and it became the highlight for every press member in the Seven Kingdoms.</p><p>Jon was finishing up with something; she wasn’t sure what he was doing. He’d been hovering somewhere behind a black curtain through most of the event. She didn’t ask. It had been a strange few weeks since their moment together in Winterfell. They oddly didn’t bite each other’s heads off, the insults were few and far between, with no heat behind them. It was just…sad. They went out with a whimper, not a bang.</p><p>She glanced at Missandei, who had uttered the surprise admission, and she nodded, taking a deep breath and glanced at Jon, who had emerged from behind whatever it was he was doing. “There you are,” she murmured, stepping towards him, her arms crossed over her chest. “Are you ready?”</p><p>“Ready?”</p><p>“To go out there, make the announcement.”</p><p>“Oh, um, aye.” Jon moved over as someone came to him, handing him a microphone. He took a deep breath and studied her a moment, his gray eyes clear, bright. He had put on eyeliner again, to fuck with her, she imagined, his dark curls tugged in a messy bun. He was in full <em>creator</em> mode, which was odd for her, as he should have been in his aloof CEO mode instead. He gestured towards the curtain. “There’s something there for you, um…before I go out, I wanted to just say ah…” He took a deep breath, quiet, intense. He took her hand in his free one, gripping tight.</p><p>She cocked her head, frowning. “What is going on with you?” She scowled. It was easier to fight with him sometimes. “Don’t tell me you’re getting soft on me now Jon Snow.”</p><p>“No, are you going to go raging bitch on me?”</p><p>A quick flash of a smile and she watched him walk off. She walked by the models, who were getting finishing touches on their hair and makeup, going to stand near the side of the opening to the runway. It was dark, Jon waiting for the cue, and then he stepped out just as the cool blue light landed on him. The room cheered, an uproar, and he walked down to the center of the runway, which had been black, and then lit up, computer animation flickering across it, like snow, the backdrop also lit up to look like a snowfall.</p><p>Jon did not smile; it was not really his thing. He waited for the applause to die down and spoke. “Good evening everyone. Thank you for coming here tonight. My mother would not like this at all, but it seems that everyone saw fit to honor her so…guess that’s what I am doing tonight.” There was a smattering of laughter and applause. No one ever really knew how to take Jon’s words.</p><p>She smirked, leaving him to his shitshow, and walked back towards the curtain he’d been hiding behind. The crowd applauded again, but she ignored it, and the music began. It was muffled where she was. She frowned at the sight of a dress form, with a black drape over it. <em>Was it another dress? A surprise final piece?</em> Whatever it was, he hadn’t told her. She looked over her shoulder and frowned, reaching for the drape and tugged on it.</p><p>And revealed a masterpiece.</p><p>“Oh,” she exclaimed, covering her mouth with her hands.</p><p>It was breathtaking.</p><p>The gown looked like fire come to life. It was tailored perfectly, every stich intricate and she knew done by hand. The bottom appeared to be flames, fluttering along, and coiled around, hardening to scales. One arm was long-sleeved, shimmery onyx and ruby, ending in a shoulder that looked like it might sprout wings. Underneath the black scales, it looked like fire pulsing. Or blood. <em>Fire and blood.</em></p><p>Except when she walked around behind it, the scales looked like ice, suddenly. “Fire and ice,” she whispered. It was them. Both of them. She touched it, the corset boning rigid under her fingertip. The curtain flickered, her eyes lifting to find Missandei. She met her best friend’s eyes, whispering. “Help me get into it.”</p><p>Whatever Jon’s plans for the dress, she didn’t know. Just that once Missandei got her into it, she knew it was for her. It fit like a glove. Her silver braids were already coiled around like a crown, her trademark six-inch black platforms already on her feet. Missandei rushed out to clear the way for her and she strode forth confidently. The designers were not the models, but right now she was.</p><p>She heard the others cheering as she walked forward, and smiled briefly, the models finishing up. They went out again, the five of them, and then the music changed. It made her think of dragons, like she imagined it was supposed to, and credit to Missandei for doing this as fast as she did. In about ten minutes. She watched the runway change, the last dress evocative of the weirwood tree in winter, a floating white piece of chiffon and tulle, and the branches with their bloody red leaves faded away.</p><p>It was dark, the crowd murmuring, and then everything flashed, flames exploding around iron swords, and she walked out, the light bright on her as she grinned, waving and walking down in the magnificent dress, the fire and ice, everything she and Jon were together. She spun around at the end, waited a moment, and then walked back up, before spinning around again.</p><p>At the end, she stepped backwards to the side, into the wings, and straight into Jon, who grabbed her around her waist, and spun her in a circle. She didn’t see his face, because she was grabbing it in her hands, kissing him with all she had inside of her. Telling him everything she struggled to say, because he didn’t use words very well either. He returned the kiss with equal ardor, holding her tight.</p><p>They broke apart, her hand smoothing across his jaw, laughing. “Your hair is so pretentious,” she mumbled.</p><p>“You’re not wearing the skirt right, can’t you fucking dress?”</p><p>“That’s a terrible insult.”</p><p>He shrugged, grinning. “It’s the best I could come up with.” He softened, tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear. He gazed down at the dress and met her eyes again. Hers glimmered, unshed tears threatening to fall, while he became nervous. “I…uh…couldn’t stop drawing it. Or something like it. Um…then we you know and I…I…” he trailed off. He closed his eyes and reached to dig the heels of his hand into his eye. “Fuck, um, it’s for you. It’s…for you because I…I can’t…” his hands fell again, shoulders slumping. He shook his head, whispering. “Fuck Dany I can’t stop thinking about you. About what we did…what happened to us and…everything. All the fucking mess.”</p><p>“Jon,” she whispered. It had been in her mind too. They were older, wiser, different…the tension from years of bubbling animosity and unsaid feelings, it had exploded in Winterfell. Left in its wake was… She chewed her bottom lip, cutting into his stuttering. “Sometimes you have to burn everything to watch it come back to life.”</p><p>That’s what they did.</p><p>He held her face close, whispering. “I love you. I love you so much, I never meant…never meant to hurt you…I’m a fucking idiot.”</p><p>“Yes, you are,” she mumbled to his mouth, laughing. “And so am I. I love you too.”</p><p>They embraced once again, and suddenly everything was still. And bright. So very, very bright. Also quiet.</p><p>She tore apart, freezing. Jon followed her gaze, mouth dropping.</p><p>The curtain had pulled apart, revealing them to the entire audience of the MET Gala.</p><p>“Oh gods,” Jon murmured. He lifted his brows, whispering. “Um…I forgot I had this planned.”</p><p>“You what?” she hissed, gritting her teeth, glaring up. Her heart hammered in her throat, bubbling up. She was going to kill him. Until she saw everyone was standing and applauding and looking above their heads. She turned, looking up, eyes popping out at the sight.</p><p>On the screen behind them was an insignia, a label, one she had never seen before. A dragon and wolf entwining, script writing underneath, blue and red. <em>DragonWolf</em>.</p><p>“Dragonwolf?” she whispered, meeting his sheepish gaze. She arched her brows. “What…what’s that?”</p><p>Jon smiled, whispering, “Our label.”</p><p><em>Label.</em> “Oh,” she breathed. Her lips split, wide over her teeth and she laughed, gazing back out at everyone and then to him again. They were both given microphones, but did not let go of each other, hands still entwined, clutching the other. Cameras flashed, blinding her, and she lifted the microphone up, unsure what to say, until it came tumbling out.</p><p>Thanking Lyanna for the opportunity, thanking her for everything, and for Jon. She teared up, unable to believe she was saying this about him, and then he just said, “Thank you Dany.” That was it. They didn’t need anything else to say.</p><p>The models went back out with the collection, while she disappeared around the corner with Jon. She embraced him again, eyes closing. “You’re a bastard, I love you.”</p><p>“I love you too,” he whispered. He pulled back, kissing her softly, and smiled against her. “Come on Dany. We’ve got a company to build.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This is the collection I thought for Jon and Dany, for the Lyanna homage show.  It's Paolo Sebastian's "Nutcracker" collection from Fall/Winter 2019.  So perfect!</p><div class="center">
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        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p></p><div class="center">
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